


Meteora

by solsixtus



Series: Vault of the Sky [1]
Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: F/M, Gen, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 79,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solsixtus/pseuds/solsixtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?”</p><p>Columbia is new, a fledgling eaglet spreading her wings, but there aren’t always clear skies. For Robert and Rosalind, keeping the city afloat relies on their willingness to find and keep Columbia’s secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prima Facie

**Author's Note:**

> Meteora - “Middle of the sky," "suspended in the air”
> 
> Parallel blog of commentary, research, and illustrations: suspended-in-the-air.tumblr.com

_"At first appearance"_

* * *

_**December 6, 1894**_

_"Is it really possible to tell someone else what one feels?"_

Tolstoy’s text garnered a slow smile from Rosalind. It was possible, oh yes, but only if the _impossible_ was achieved first—the impossible being, of course, that one rip a hole in the fabric of reality to meet another version of themself.

 _Herself,_ she corrected.

If the laws of the universe could bend to her will, so could grammar. _She_ had created the device, and found someone who understood her more than she did herself. And she understood _him_. Most days. There were anomalies, but they were slight; an extraneous scar here, an acquired taste there.

The differences between her and Robert caused her no grief, only intrigue. He was marvelous; truly extraordinary in ways she could only comprehend within herself, without form or language. The manner of it rose from different things. Often they were mundane, like tapping his brow the same time as she, starting a staircase on the same stride, or arranging utensils by size and not usage. And there were instances that were overwhelming, like when she lay still in the silence of night, and the pitching of the city in the air is the only remedy when the doldrums of thought seized her mind.

She had listened to Robert describe it once, a year ago, when the dissonance of his mind plagued him frequently in the newness of his arrival, and she knew then, that she was bound to this man in a way she could not be to any another.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden clamor from the parlour; the sound of the door opening roughly, a frock being draped on the coat hanger, footsteps running up the stairs.

“Rosalind?”

“Drawing room,” she answered, sitting up straight from her recline on the couch. With a sigh, she closed _Anna Karenina_ , not bothering to mark her place. Once she set down something, she was bound to never pick it up again unless it caught her interest once more. This novel was mildly interesting to her at best. She stacked it on top of two others on the end table.

Robert entered in a mad dash, nose, lips, and cheeks reddened by the winter breeze. The effect made it quite difficult to discern if he’d been running. Either way, he was in quite a mood to tell her something immediately.

“What is it?”

He sniffed. “Have you seen the papers?”

She glanced at the growing stack of unread issues of the _Chronicle_ near the stairs.

Robert followed her gaze and made a noise of annoyance. “ _Of course_. I’ll just tell you then,” he said, offering her a crimson bottle before moving to stand in front of the fireplace. “Fink’s made another one.”

Rosalind leaned forward to examine it properly. It was heavy, like a full bottle of antiseptic. She fiddled with the tag and arched an eyebrow. “Devil’s Kiss?”

“ _Just in time for Christmas_ ,” he added sardonically, rubbing his hands.

“Theatrical.” Right down to the nude succubus seductively breathing fire. Prurient, like its predecessor, Possession. No doubt a great many gentlemen enjoyed handling the bottle.

Finally warmed up, Robert moved to sit beside her on the couch. “That’s not even the half of it. It allows one to generate balls of fire and project them.”

She looked up at him, slightly alarmed. “Project them at what?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Exactly.”

“Hmm,” she sounded, examining the bottle again. “I don’t like it. I don’t like the spread between this new product and the last.”

When Jeremiah Fink had first introduced his newest product, these _vigors_ , not two months ago, she and Robert were wary. Of what, exactly, they were unsure. They were less concerned with the effects the vigors gave, and more with what the vigors are. Fink was a businessman and an opportunist, that much was certain, but the delicate balance needed to refine something of this caliber was beyond Fink’s talents. And theirs, currently.

Robert seemed to pick up on her thoughts. “Perhaps he’s hired someone?”

She glanced at him, unconvinced. “Perhaps. If that’s truly what’s going on then, I also wonder how much he’s paying them to put his name on the product?”

“Indeed.”

With a final glance and decidedly contemptuous frown, Rosalind placed the offensive bottle on the table, ending their conversation about it.

“Enough of that, then. Now that you’re here, we can continue working on our infusions. Have you the list from the botanist?”

He looked confounded for a moment before getting up from the couch so quickly, his knees creaked.

“Ah! My apologies. I was in such rush, and the crowd for that vigor in front of the apothecary caught my attention. I’ll get them right away,” he said, and before she could answer, he was out of the room and back in the parlour putting on his coat.

Rosalind sighed. He was like a young boy sometimes, and she his mother; all the unbridled, gregarious parts of her.

“Don’t forget about the apothecary as well,” she called out to him.

“Yes, _Mother_ ,” he drawled, but she heard the smile in his voice. “I shant forget.”

The corners of her mouth tugged upwards. “I shall have to scold you if you do.”

Robert chuckled, and it grew faint as he stepped out into the foyer. When the door shut, leaving her in solitude once more, she took a mental triage of the drawing room. Their infusion was on hold until Robert returned, and the equation on the blackboard near the window annoyed her with its blank variables. Her novel, perhaps? Resignedly, she looked to the table where she set it down, finding instead, the tawdy libation blowing its fiery breath in her direction.

Rosalind thinned her lips, grabbing the vigor and heading towards the kitchen. _Robert had better get back soon_ , she grumbled to herself.

 


	2. Bis in die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert completes errands and muses about the way of things.

 

_"Twice in a Day"_

* * *

 

Rosalind’s threatening promise left him in a better mood, far better than it was moments ago mulling over Fink’s sudden and enigmatic inspiration. _Any_ interaction with her, though, tended to have that effect.

“Stepping out again, Mr. Lutece?”

Adjusting his scarf, Robert smiled at their most recent hire, Gwendolyn Marlowe, who by her own account, impressed him enough for the job with her poise than her familiar connection to one of the city’s Founders did. By his measure, she was not intimidated by himself or Rosalind, and she had a tolerance for the peculiarities of their work that most women—indeed most _people_ \-- of her class did not possess.

Still, she’d been in their employ for only a week, so the true measure of her character and assistance remained to be seen. Regardless, she was doing an excellent job in her duties as secretary.

“For the same thing, actually, yes,” he told her.

“Are you sure it’s not anything I can do for you?” she asked for a second time that afternoon.

“Quite positive, but thank-you so much.”

Like earlier, he had to decline—not for lack of trust, but these errands were sensitive matters pertaining to their most recent project. Considering Fink’s vigors were encroaching into similar territory, he had to remain cautious. He thought he caught disappointment tugging at the corner of her mouth, but he looked to the front door instead of confirming it. A woman distraught was not something he could stand for very long without rectifying the situation.

The biting, winter chill seemed to creep through the dense oak doors, and he reconsidered Miss Marlowe's offer when he reached them.

“Well,” Robert started, noticing at once her dark features brightening. “I suppose there _is_ something you can do for me, Miss Marlowe.”

She straightened in her chair behind the front desk. “Yes?”

“You may head home if you like. I know it’s early, but the weather is quite disagreeable for the hour. I’d hate for you to be caught in it should it get worse.”

“Oh.” Glancing at the clock, she was surprised at the hour. “Thank-you. You’re too kind.”

Robert dismissed her praise saying, “I’m just being realistic.” Truly he was. There was no exaggeration needed for what was only the right and logical action. And of course, he also did not want them all to be on the wrong side of her uncle. “Do you need an escort?”

She smiled demurely. “I’m sure my uncle would insist, but I am quite capable of getting home on my own. Again, thank-you for asking. I’ll leave once I’ve tidied up.”

“Very well,” he acquiesced, tipping his hat to her. “I shall see you tomorrow then, Miss Marlowe. Have a pleasant evening.”

“And you and Madame Lutece, sir.”

With that, he braced himself for the sharp gust that greeted him when he opened the doors and stepped outside. There were many winters he’d experienced in his lifetime between New England and Britain, but none like Columbia. Upon further examination of that statement, he corrected that _no one_ had until last year. He hadn’t spent much time outdoors then, as he was still recovering from his travels—vocabulary courtesy of Rosalind.

Stepping off the porch, he wondered if all winters at this altitude would be so harsh. If that was the case, surely he might reconsider living here. He pulled the lapels of his frock tighter around himself, scoffing. _And surely_ , the weather was affecting his mood. Miserable and cold as it was, the blizzards only last a few weeks in comparison to the agreeable rest of the year. He stepped lively in the snow now, for they were remarkable steps which no man could have taken were it not for a woman.

He smiled, the cold quickly seeping through his teeth. A truly remarkable woman.

She had broken the walls of reality to share her achievements, her Creation, her _life_ with _him_. How could he ever leave it, this marvel that had the entire planet entranced? This Eden where he was their Adam, and Rosalind their Eve? There would be no Fall, not when it was they who offered the Fruit to God.

 _But that was quite enough of_  that, Robert chided himself. How easy it was to lapse into this religious folly, this illusory amazement the population held.

 _Quite_ easily, when every man and woman fawned over their cleverness.

_‘Good day, Mr. Lutece.’ ‘The finest seats in the house for you tonight, Mr. Lutece.’ ‘Might you enlighten us with your metier, Mr. Lutece?’_

If he’d encountered them in his universe, in his life before Rosalind, they’d have never given him a second glance, and the knowledge of that truth was perhaps his driving reason for ensuring Columbia’s legacy. He pondered about it most days, when it was silent enough, or Comstock’s preaching loud enough. And perhaps it was for the better. The man’s alternate self was accruing massive debt and deadly vices; a terrible situation for a new life to enter.

In many ways, he and the girl, this _lamb_ , were the same; saved by grace. Selfish, selfless grace.

At that allegory, he stopped his musings, for he was not wont to compare dear Rosalind to _Mr_. Comstock.

The crowd in front of Harper’s Family Pharmacy had whittled down from the brouhaha of twenty minutes ago-- seems even the fiery concoction couldn’t keep men outdoors for very long in the Columbian winter. Still, Robert made no effort to make himself known to the crowd once more. He slipped unnoticed into the establishment, brushing the snow off his shoulders and hat.

“Mr. Harper,” he started, with a curt nod.

The apothecary of Harper’s Pharmacy was an older gentleman who was as sharp as he was meticulous, and every vial and ampoule, every brass scale and mortar and pestle, was in its appropriate place. There was no room here for Fink’s vigors and salts between the carefully labeled lineaments and elixirs. His lips spread in a slow and calculated smile.

“What do you require today, Mr. Lutece?” Mr. Harper asked behind the counter.

Robert pulled the note with Rosalind’s neat handwriting from the safe confines of his pocket and placed it between them.

“A few items for a personal project.” A pause. “I’ll have your discretion?”

Glancing at the paper briefly, Mr. Harper unclasped his bony hands and set his palms flat on the countertop, holding his gaze more strongly.

“ _Always_ , Mr. Lutece.”

The absence of Fink’s products on the shelves helped solidify the statement, and Robert sealed the confidence. “I appreciate it.”

With that, Mr. Harper reached for the note and swept his eyes over it once, frowning slightly. “The dittany won’t be in until January.”

“That’s fine.” He and Rosalind could hold off that part of their work until then.

“Very well. I’ll place a reserve for you.” He procured a thick moleskin ledger from under the counter, and when he opened it, fluidly and gently, Robert was awash in the ancient scent of the pages. An elaborate _‘R.Lutece’_ became the most recent addition of the hundreds of names listed in black lettering. It was not the first to appear, but its frequency in the book was increasing as of late.

Mr. Harper completed the last of his records, smiling as he closed the ledger. “I’ll be but a moment,” he told Robert, and began to move quickly throughout the shop, gathering the remaining items from the list.

He moved to a catalog that existed only in his mind, because Robert had many times, including now, tried to follow the classification system the man had created for his shop. Lineaments, elixirs, infusions, extracts, tinctures. Tinctures with alcohol as a solvent; with vinegar, with glycerol. Those were just a portion of the solutions on the shelves. There were still herbs and botanical material. Valerian, violet, lavender, marigold, nightshade. All further categorized by their physical state; ground, grated, full roots, diced. Then there were balms, cremes, resins, and more still...

He suspected they were further divided by their country of origin, and that’s where he stopped trying to decipher Mr. Harper’s elaborate organization. It wasn’t as vital to him as the elements he needed themselves, and the apothecary placed them all in a brown package wrapped in twine.

“Here you are, Mr. Lutece. My warmest regards to your sister,” Mr. Harper said. “Shall I continue to send a statement at the end of each month?”

“If you would? I can pay in full if you prefer.” Rosalind and he were well respected in Columbia and the insistence some citizens took to give them exceptional convenience was something he was not used to-- _Rosalind_ maybe, but not him. This was her universe; he was still assimilating into it.

Mr. Harper pushed the package toward him. “The bill is fine. Best of luck with your project results,” he said, and Robert knew then, that the man did not often make accommodations for even the finest Columbians. There was sincerity and genuine interest, and he took that to be a shared profession of the sciences.

With this new understanding, Robert gave his farewell. “Thank-you very much, Mr. Harper. Rosalind and I are very much in your gratitude.”

“Have a pleasant day.”

“And you,” Robert replied. He placed his hat back on and braced himself for the cold once more.

 

* * *

 

He had been right; the weather had worsened as the afternoon stretched on. It was good that he was done with his errands and soon to return to the warmth of his— _their_ —home. The language had not yet set upon him completely, as was the prospect of returning home to someone. Still, the prospect was unlike anything he had ever experienced; thrilling—in a way he imagined a married man might return to his wife, only the woman who awaited him was his complete counterpart.

Robert’s lips quirked as he walked up the steps of the porch. To him, she eclipsed every woman in this universe and the next—a truer statement if there ever was one.

He found the foyer empty, which was good. Miss Marlowe had heeded his suggestion. Her early dismissal was perhaps a better blessing for her, because Rosalind tended to get a bit _miffed_ when she started experiments and there were people around. He hoped she’d warm up to Gwendolyn. He was getting _equally_  as miffed having to find a new front girl every week. But he digressed. Perhaps if he had been a female, being fussed over by Mother and cousins and maids, he would have the same predisposition as she.

He began to remove his outer wear and draped them on the coat hanger.

“I’m back,” he called out.

“Kitchen,” came her reply--soft, at normal speaking level.

There was a bustle of pots and jars, and he headed towards it, detecting the faint scent of smoke and something else he couldn’t identify—meat, perhaps. Was she attempting to prepare a meal? Surely she wasn’t starting work on infusions yet.

“Rosalind?”

She didn’t answer, and he thought he heard her sigh amongst the sound of broken glass shifting across the floor. A sudden wave of dread washed over him and he nearly sprang down the hall towards her. “Rosalind!”

When he finally entered the kitchen he found her leaning on the median. The air here was full of a thin haze, the sink with bits of charred material, the floor with the remnants of an alembic.

She scowled at him, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. Somehow, in the midst of the chaos, she still appeared in control of the situation.“You didn’t have to panic, Robert.”

“Are you…alright?” he asked, suddenly feeling foolish. What had he thought he’d find? An emotion he’d never experienced before had gripped him so terribly when he had thought she was hurt. It was almost innate, a compulsory _imperative_ of his being that left him spent and disoriented.

He went to her side at once, hand on the crook of her elbow to aid her, and he found he breathed more steadily.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, but continued to let him hold her.

“What happened?”

Rosalind stood up straighter with his support, gesturing with her chin irritably at something on the median. He knew the devilish jar immediately, and his lips twisted into a frown. He’d seen quite enough of it this afternoon.

“Did you _drink_ it?”

She brushed him away then and started tidying up. “Possibly.”

“Does that mean likely?” he pressed.

He disliked the demeanor she adopted when she wasn’t in the mood to discuss matters, and he clenched his jaw because he recognized that he did the same. He knelt to assist her in picking the glass off the floor. There was a moment of silence between them, only the sound of clinking glass, but she finally relented.

“It means-”

She paused suddenly and they both heard the sound of the parlor door opening and shutting.

“Hello there!”A boisterous voice boomed throughout their house. “Pardon the intrusion, but the front desk was empty.”

Rosalind eyed Robert and he shook his head. He had no idea who the stranger was.

Helping her up, Robert led the way to the parlor, and even from down the hall, the man’s mustache and harsh features were telling of his identity. He glanced sidelong at Rosalind to share a look of concern with her before greeting their visitor.

“Good evening, Mr. Fink.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts:
> 
> Why has Fink stopped by their residence?  
> What was Rosalind doing with the vigor? Why?


	3. Sapere aude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosalind deals with Fink's surprise visit and Robert's questions.

 

 

_"Dare to know"_

* * *

 

Her brother was always more polite than she, especially when it came to visitors, but she simply had no time—or _patience_ , rather—for pleasantries. So while he had greeted Fink, she would be direct.

“Mr. Fink, I’m a bit astonished to ask why you’re here.” Of all days; of all the _hours_ in this day, he chose _now_ to arrive. Unannounced, unattended. He had better have a damn good reason for it. She was in no mood. Especially not when his eyes wandered, recognizing his generators in the corners of the room, following the wires to their destination in the main part of the house.

Fink bowed, slightly, and the keeping of his hat on his head did not go unnoticed.

“Please forgive my, ah, intrusion,” he started. He looked between the two of them, considering their state; Robert’s weathered flush and her tousled hair. “Am I interrupting something?” There was a quirk at the corner of his thin lips, discernible with the perking imbalance of his mustache.

“Nothing too important. Necessary trial and error, you understand,” Rosalind brushed aside.

He nodded at their mutual work ethic. “All too well, my dear.”

She was less irritated with his insinuations and more with his keen and interested eyes leering the Contraption. Robert seemed to be as well, for he cleared his throat and shifted to block the man’s view.

“Let’s discuss this in the drawing room,” he gestured of the empty and private room to their right.

“No need,” Fink brushed aside, just as deftly. “I’m just dropping by to give an invitation for the Christmas Ball. Flambeau’s off taking care of affairs and I was visiting Comstock to discuss arrangements for the gathering and all that.” From his inner coat pocket he retrieved a finely decorated envelope addressed to both of them. “Why, I told him that since I was, ah, in the neighborhood, I’d drop ‘em off myself! Your appearance was sorely missed last year. Figured I try and convince you two this time.”

The _Christmas Ball?_ Rosalind actually raised her eyebrows at the unexpected news as she took the invitation from Fink.

“Yes, well, it was unfortunate that Robert was still recovering last year from his travels. I very well couldn’t leave him to his illness while I took part in festivities.” Partially a truth, and partially a lie. The main reason she had not gone was because she simply did not want to.

“I’m very much in better health since then,” Robert interjected, eying her pointedly.

She arched an eyebrow at him. _Really?_ She was sparing him from the trivialities of public social events.

“So you’ll come?” Fink actually sounded excited. “It’ll be a grand ol’ time. I can vouch for it.”

She glanced at Robert, letting him answer.

“Most certainly.”

Fink clapped his hands together. “Good to hear!” he grinned, though she only saw it as a baring of teeth. “Well! I’d best be off. The weather’s wailing like a son of a gun.”

“Yes, absolutely dreadful. I was out there myself not fifteen minutes ago,” Robert said, moving towards the parlour door to open it for him.

“Ah! Bet you’ve got your plate full then, making sure every thing’s fine-tuned in these temperatures. I’ve got Flambeau making rounds doing that very thing.”

“Mmm. This week’s only been one minor incident, so that’s a blessing.”

Rosalind remained in the doorway of the parlour, and with distant regard, she observed the men conversing in the foyer. Professionally they got on quite well with Fink; the strictest of work ethics, the most efficient pragmatism. Their roles in the city were very similar, in that they were responsible and vital for its function. But there, the similarities ended. Their necessity to cooperate with Fink on all matters Columbia was just that—a _necessity_. She had no interest or desire to know him unprofessionally.

He was aggressive, presumptuous, obstinate. He was a _whole manner_ of things she did not care to consider, but he was also insatiable, and of that trait, she took very careful notice. There was a balance to be held with him. Intentional provision had to be given at the appropriate moments to keep his curiosity tamed.

“Our observations from last year should help it stay within those parameters,” she added to the conversation. “At least we have estimates to work from now.”

His dark eyes flicked to her and he spoke with enthusiasm. “ _Yes,_ ” Fink agreed. “I can’t _bear_ the intangible. I’ve got to have something in my hands to grasp. Gotta have papers and numbers and prototypes. Otherwise nothing gets done.”

Robert and she hummed their agreement in unison.

A brief silence fell as the three of them no longer had anything to discuss, business or otherwise. The wind whistled through the door, bringing in a seeping draft.

Fink fetched his pocket watch from his vest, glancing at it. “Well. I really _should_ be going,” he said again, extending his hand to Robert and giving it a good pump. He tipped his hat to her. “Madame. Again, do forgive the intrusion.”

It was Robert who answered, thankfully, and he gave the man a polite smile. “It’s not a problem. We appreciate the gesture. Have a good day, Mr. Fink.”

“And you,” he replied, finally stepping out into the cold.

Rosalind made very certain the front door sealed well, and she pursed her lips first at the empty desk and then at Robert.

“Why is the front desk unattended?”

The unexpected visit could have been handled much better if Miss Marlowe had been here. Hadn’t he _insisted_ they hire her? And where was she? This was exactly the reason she did not want extra help if she was to be concerned about their competency for the simplest of responsibilities. Quite disappointing as well. She had higher expectations of her—not too terribly high—she was a relative of a Founder, after all—but even then, nepotism had not garnered her the position in their residence.

“That is my fault,” he replied. “I dismissed Miss Marlowe early.”

“For good reason, I presume?”

He scoffed, looking slightly offended. “Of course. The weather is terrible.” He brushed past her in the doorway. “Don’t think I’ve _forgotten_ about that blasted vigor.”

She followed him as he passed her. “I wasn’t thinking you had, but while we’re on that, what do you make of Fink’s visit?”

He shrugged. “Fairly straightforward, I’d say. And brazen.”

“I hardly believe _convenience_ was his true intent. He’s very punctual that man; very meticulous. Nothing is ever out of place. He obsesses with that pocket watch of his.”

“Clearly, we are worthy of his time. Especially on the day of his vigor introduction.”

“But what does he _want_ ,” Rosalind muttered irritably. She despised games; she despised losing. Fink had had the upper hand this time.

“He _wants_ to see our reactions, our machines.” Stopping to fall behind her, he let her enter the main room first on their way to the kitchen. “And on that note, this door should stay closed at all times.”

“Or rather,” she put forward, “Uninvited guests should not enter our house of their own accord.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Or both.”

They entered the kitchen again, back into the jumble that was the result of her experiment with the vigor. It was understandable now, slightly, his reaction to seeing her. A very sharp odor of smoke and what she knew to be her flesh hung in the room. She glanced down at her hands, noticing for the first time that they were reddened and cracked at the finger tips. Interesting that she not aware of them until now.

“So then,” Robert started slowly, rolling up his sleeves, “Are you going to wait for me when you perform a possibly dangerous experiment, or do I have to worry constantly about being separated from you for bouts of time?”

It was her turn to scoff. “None of that, now. You’d have done the same.”

“Yes, but I’d have waited for you,” he shot back, lips thinning. For a long second, he simply stared at her, and her mood softened at the complexity in his eyes. He sighed and knelt to continue clearing the glass on the floor.

With a sudden understanding, Rosalind knew she had been ignorant of his feelings. He was her, but more often than not, she was less mindful that he was equally not her. Placing the invitation on the median, she retrieved the wastebasket to help him.

“I’m…sorry for not waiting, Robert.” She was not so good at making apologies.

Robert paused, looking up at her.

“And for…for worrying you.” She waited with bated breath, because she was also not one to forgive so easily.

A half-smile formed on his face. “In your defence, you _did_ appear to have the situation under control.”

She mirrored his smile. “Does it help also that I had not _originally_ planned to ingest the concoction?”

“It does,” he said, resuming his work. He chuckled. “Idle hands are the devil’s playthings.”

Reflexively, she curled her fingers to hide them from his sight, but the motion only drew his attention.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, already seeing a frown tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Nothing? Then why are you hiding them? Let me see,” he said sternly, and he reminded her briefly of their father.

With reluctance she let him place both his hands on hers and turn them to examine them. His thumbs brushed over her palms and fingers. The examination was light, but it stung unexpectedly and she pulled away.

“How painful?”

“Not so much,” she lied.

“Now don’t give me _that_.”

She had just discovered the true extent of the pain, and a swell of anger formed within her because of the pain and of her stupidity. Their work would fall behind, she would have to rely on Robert for the simplest of things while her hands healed--

Not wanting to meet his eyes, she looked to the window behind him instead, shaking her head. “It was foolish, I know.”

“You are never foolish,” he said calmly. He stood up and went to retrieve the stool on the other side of the counter for her to sit on. “Your curiosity simply got the best of you. And that is never a bad thing, especially when it’s our best quality.”

She thought she heard a smile in his voice when he said the last sentence, and she looked up to give him one, but he kept his back to her as he filled a bowl with water at the sink. Rosalind sat on the stool, feeling something like dejection. She did not often care when someone gave her a cold shoulder, the occurrence being quite frequent because of her profession and gender, but with Robert… it was such a terrible, terrible feeling.

“Are you cross with me?” she said quietly to her hands. She studied them more carefully in her chagrin.

The faucet shut off, and he was silent as he walked back to her, placing the bowl on the counter. “No.”

Though he had finally answered, she continued to avoid his gaze and dipped her hands into the water. She seethed as the liquid chilled and seeped into her fingers. It would only be worse tomorrow.

“Are you with _me_?” Robert asked suddenly.

She furrowed her brows and glanced up at him. “No. Why?”

He reached across for the invitation she had placed down. “I know you don’t want to go.”

She watched him open it and go over the details.

Perhaps it was the pressing of his lips together at the thought of some ill memory, or maybe it was the way he handled the invitation, but she had a flash in her mind’s eye that social invites had not come often in his universe. And here, she was denying him the opportunity. She looked away, unable to bear his expression.

“Well, I _didn’t_ ,” she admitted.

“So we are going? The both of us?”

Rosalind turned to him again. She could not refuse the boyish excitement in his eyes, and she found herself smiling as well. “I never would have gone without you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hrrm, a bit domestic, this chapter.
> 
> Some questions:
> 
> -Fink’s plan, er, visit revealed! Why the personal delivery?  
> -Christmas Ball. Good or bad or both?


	4. Fluctuat nec mergitur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cold front puts Robert to work in the city.

_“It floats and doesn’t sink.”_

 

* * *

**December 12, 1894, Wednesday**

 

 

 

 

_Haste denies all acts their dignity._

_Unless,_ Robert added, hastily clasping the buttons on his waistcoat together, _All dignity has already been_ lost. And it had. Or perhaps he was being capricious, because his face would go unshaven this very cold and early morning. If last week had been incident free, barring that minor fluctuation of Locke Center reactors, then this week certainly made up for it. The past five days were a frenzied blur of late-night telegrams, inspections throughout the city, and hours spent adjusting and reworking formulas. A cold front on the tails of the snowstorms last week had brought along a frost that threatened more than just stark weather. When the temperatures dropped, and the reactors began to ice over, so would the city. Rosalind’s curiosity with the vigor had only made the numerous developments much more difficult to handle. With her hands in bandages as they healed, much of the legwork had fallen to him.

Let it not be said then, by Dante or anyone else, that he was diminishing his quality of work simply because he had thrown his utmost attention into it and not into the sharpness of his appearance today. How fitting the prose was from the second book of his Comedy, because to his exhausted eyes, their Paradise was Purgatory.

The bell pull rang again for the third time in five minutes. Certainly, their residence was the only one in Columbia where the hired help had to notify the owners they were needed.

He rapped quickly at Rosalind’s bedroom door across from his. “I’m ready. Do you need help?” He waited for her reply, noticing his shirttail hung over the top of his trousers. Robert made a small grumble as he shoved it into neatness. Instead of her voice came footsteps, and the door flung open.

To his surprise, she was almost fully dressed. Over these five days, he’d helped her get dressed, amongst other things, since she was limited in her ability to perform actions that required fine dexterity; simple things like buttons on blouses, ties, and corset lacings. The arrangement had never been uncomfortable—she was always modestly dressed—but it was a new set of limits they had created. He was still dressing a woman—even if the woman was himself.

She scowled at him, as she did then, slipping the tongue of her tie into a knot. “I can manage,” she said, finishing it. It was slow and loose, and he itched to straighten it for her--

“--Go! I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Right,” he nodded, already heading to the stairs. He looked over his shoulder at her. “And if it’s an emergency?” As it probably _was_ this early in the morning.

“I won’t be too long, but if it is, go without me. Take Miss Marlowe if she’s down there,” she waved dismissively.

Robert raised an eyebrow, but nodded as he continued down the stairs, two at a time. Mother would have chided how very _proletarian_ it was, but surely even she would give pardon to his habit when a city was falling from the heavens. At the last flight of stairs, he took to adhering to a more appropriate stride, though still just as urgent. He straightened his waistcoat and tie, and pushed the parlour door open.

“Mr. Lutece!” Miss Marlowe all but exclaimed at his entrance into the foyer. “I apologize for the constant ringing, but there’s a bit of an emergency.” She gestured discreetly at the two gentlemen also standing in the room.

He noticed them fully at the opposite side of the front desk. “My deepest apologies, gentlemen. Have you been waiting long?”

By their appearance, it was difficult to discern. They were well-dressed, as he was, and also unshaven and unrefreshed. The older man had the weary expression of a father who’d had not a wink of sleep last night in his worry over his family. He gave him a smile as tight as his hands gripping his hat.

“No, we have not, Mr. Lutece. Please accept _our_ apologies for the premature hour. I’m Melchoir Sinclair, and this is my son Percy,” he said, introducing the other man.

Robert nodded at both of them. “A pleasure to meet you both, though I regret the circumstances. You have an emergency?” he prodded.

“Yes,” Mr. Sinclair replied. “Trouble with our reactor. It’s a singular residence. I’ve told Miss Marlowe the problem. Perhaps, she could relay it better to you?”

He looked to her for assistance and she in turn looked to Robert.

“Go ahead,” he said.

She smiled in gratitude and handed him a note card for which she narrated. “Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Percy, arrived at 6:45-” At this, he glanced briefly at the clock. _Fifteen minutes ago_. “-With the concern that their residence was listing several degrees. I’ve noted their location, square footage of their building, time of the incident. The severity of it in such a short amount of time is cause for concern.”

“Hmm, yes,” he agreed, scanning her neat handwriting. Her notes were very thorough and concise. He could actually work off an estimate of the reactor decay rate from it. It wasn’t good. “Is this the only incident?”

“The most recent,” Miss Marlowe said. She returned to the desk and he saw other telegrams arranged there. “These have come in throughout the night and early this morning. They were on the doorstep and I’ve sorted their urgency as best I could.”

Robert examined her triage, which was just as thorough, and he was impressed. This was work he expected from an assistant who’d been working here for months.

“You’ve done excellently, Miss Marlowe. If you’ll gather these and put on your coat, we’ll head right away to help the Sinclairs.”

Her eyes widened. “I’m going with you?”

“Yes. I could really use your help today. Is that a problem?”

“Oh no! I don’t mind at all,” she said, gathering the cards.

“Good,” he said, leaning into the parlour to grab his own coat off the hanger. “You’d best grab a notebook.”

* * *

The Sinclair Residence he could see, even from the distance he was at, was in a state of trouble. It hung forlornly in the air like a balloon that had diffused much of its helium. He, Miss Marlowe, Mr. Sinclair, and his son headed towards the five-storey house on a Science Authority barge. Much of the deck space was occupied by the large deicing machine, and as such, the four of them stood rather closer than would be acceptable as the unusually cold air blasted them on the open deck. As they neared, Robert reluctantly pulled his hands from his pockets and opened his notebook. His assessment would begin in the same way he did all the others; an encompassing inspection of the reactor, readings from the reactor itself, then a course of action to rectify the problem. Usually it was another round of deicing.

“There’s already another barge there,” Miss Marlowe pointed out.

He looked up from his notes. “An Authority barge?” Glancing at Mr. Sinclair, he asked,“Did you put in a request for a deicing?” Such requests were only approved if he’d done a previous inspection, and this was his first visit here.

The gentleman looked just as confused as he was. “Er, no. We headed straight to your laboratory, per the city-wide notice.”

“Father,” Percy murmured, “I think that may be Leander.”

Mr. Sinclair shifted uncomfortably. “Ah, my son,” he clarified. “He’s a chemist for the Authority. He mentioned he was working on… _something_.” He looked to his other son for help.

“-A deicing compound. He’d been working on it, but we didn’t think he’d have anything so quickly.”

“Do forgive my son’s presumptuousness, Mr. Lutece.”

Robert gave a polite smile. Though he had slight annoyance with the interference, he recognized on Mr. Sinclair’s face the same expression he’d seen on his own parents—embarrassment that came from having a very brilliant and precocious child. If the young man was anything like he was, the opportunity to have his work and ideas noticed by an established scientist was sure to be appreciated. And, if Leander’s compound helped in the slightest, he’d appreciate it as well.

“It’s fine. I’m interested in the results of his work.”

Both Sinclair men looked skeptical, but gave him their thanks. He told their pilot, Mr. Thompson, to bring them close to the other barge. There were three men on the ship, two in the attire of Authority workmen. Leander Sinclair, though he shared the same angular features as his father and brother, was fairer in hair, and he called to them as the barges aligned.

“Father!” he waved, open expression changing into one of excitement when he caught sight of Robert. “Mr. Lutece!” He all but scrambled across the decks to shake his hand, the coldness of which seeped through both their gloves. “I did not think you would join us so early.”

Percy nearly scoffed at his brother. “Did you not think that he would arrive with his own methods of correcting the problem as well?”

“Boys,” Mr. Sinclair warned.

Robert cleared his throat. As uncomfortable and _familiar_ as this scene was to him, he’d like to move on to a problem he could actually fix.

“Is this barge equipped with your new compound?” he asked Leander.

“Yes. Actually, it’s the _same_ deicing solution you’ve been using, only I’ve added a solute to depress the freezing-point even lower.”

Interesting. Indeed, if it worked, this very well _could_ be an end to their troubles. “Have you tested it?”

Leander glanced at his father and brother, before answering, “Not on something as large as a reactor, no.”

“But you _have_ tested it?”

“On smaller items.”

“That’s fine, we can discuss it as I work.” He turned to Mr. Sinclair and Percy. “My inspection may take some time, you’re welcome to wait here or in a much warmer place.”

Mr. Sinclair said, “Thank-you. We’ll be waiting in the O’Hare residence.” He pointed out the building.

With that, Robert ushered Miss Marlowe and Leander onto the other barge. They descended into a slow orbit around the house. He saw the young man shiver, and he was unsure if it was from the cold or excitement.

“Well,” he started, rubbing his hands together. “I didn’t expect to have such fine company today. “This is Miss Marlowe, my assistant,” he introduced.

Leander eagerly shook her hand.“Quite the pleasure to meet you Miss Marlowe, though I must ask, are you of the same relation to Mr. Charles Marlowe?”

She smiled, but Robert could see it a bit forced. “He’s my uncle. But please, you may call me Gwendolyn.”

“And you may call me Leander,” he said, catching on with a wry smile. “ _Mr. Sinclair_ is my father. And brother, sometimes. Though he’s hoping to make that _Dr._ ”

“Is your father a man of science as well?” Robert asked. If both his sons were, surely he was?

“He’s a Professor of Grammar and Literature.”

“Ah.” That did explain why he was uncomfortable explaining certain things earlier. He smiled. “Well, his concern for your work stems only from his misunderstanding. Perhaps we can change his mind today.”

“I really appreciate the opportunity, Mr. Lutece,” Leander said. There was an eagerness in his eyes he did not see present in the man’s father and brother.

“And I appreciate the possibility of a more permanent solution. It is _rather cold_ during the winter. Are you ready, Miss Marlowe?”

She nodded.

“Very well. I’ll dictate.”

They circled the underbelly of the Sinclair residence. From observation alone, one could see that ancillary quadrant reactors I and IV were performing at a rate lower than the other two, consequently causing the building to list. This was atypical of most of the problems he’d been encountering all week. The Lutece Field, when activated, over-layed onto the Newtonian Gravitational Field, decelerating the field gradient and nullifying interaction between an object and the Earth.  What was happening because of the weather, however, was that efficiency fell below normal because the reactors iced over, and the laws of gravity came into effect again.

This in turn caused buildings to sink. While this was cause for alarm, any building—or vehicle, for that matter-- with a reactor floating within the Lutece Field would never fall to the ground. They were suspended indefinitely—so long as the reactors continued to work, and they would never _completely_ ice over.  At their very core, they were contained suns. The problem that he suspected here was that I and IV somehow became more iced than II, III. Probably their energy line to the main reactor.

All this, he explained to his company who nodded their heads, or in the case of Miss Marlowe, recorded,  whether they comprehended it all or not.

Afterwards, he had the barge hover alongside the main reactor so he could gather readings from the instruments. He really disliked this part of his inspection because it demanded he walk on a sliver of a catwalk. Other men might grin at the clouds beneath their feet, but his frozen fingers and dress shoes don’t give him nearly enough purchase to enjoy the feeling. Nor does being buffeted by the icy slipstream between the large, stout hulks of steel. It reminded him of the hull of a ship on the cold Atlantic.

Finally, after several harrowing steps, he reached the instrument panel. Above the wind, he could hear glimpses of the conversation between Leander and Miss Marlowe.

“Have you worked with the Luteces long?”

“About three weeks, now. Though it feels like much longer.”

Robert grinned, jotting down the numbers from the altimeter. A year had only passed since he came over and it felt like a lifetime ago. Two lifetimes ago, if he took into account Rosalind’s memories.

He checked the output levels. Only slightly below normal.

“I imagine it must be fantastic,” Leander continued. “I don’t see them at all in my division, except at the department meetings. To work this close with Mr. Lutece, even if I’m just here for the ride, is a bit unreal.”

“This is actually my first assignment in the field with them.”

“Well, how about that! I’d have never guessed. You look very proficient.”

“It's stimulating; only jotting down notes, but I feel like a girl on Christmas.”

Light laughter bounced off the ice and metal.

 _Well, at least he hadn’t bored his companions._ With his readings, he started his careful trip back. Robert swore the gangway width was inconsistent between each reactor; probably shortcuts taken during their construction. On the ground, they may have looked fine, but up here, every centimeter and lack thereof was sorely noticed. The wind blew suddenly. He steadied himself with a hand against the side of the reactor, fingers brushing against the embossed inscription. FLVCTVAT-NEC-MERGITVR. A fitting reminder that the laws of gravity still applied to him if he fell.

Leander extended a hand to assist his transition from the catwalk to the stability of the barge, even though in his mind he knew he’d never feel safest until he was back into the warmth of his house.

Robert sniffed and rubbed his hands again to bring heat to his fingers. “Note a five meter decrease in altitude from Buoy-2, and a twenty-three percent decrease in energy balance between the main and quadrants I and IV,” he told Miss Marlowe.

“How does it fare, Mr. Lutece?” Leander asked.

“It fares well,” he answered in all honesty. “A deicing process should rectify the problem in a few short hours. Now, on the consent of your father, I’m willing to test your compound. It will go on one of the two ancillary reactors that were problematic. Results will be gathered tomorrow morning to see how effective it is. I’ll leave it to you to gather and finalize all your work for a more formal presentation to both my lab and to the Authority.”

If there was a happier person than Leander Sinclair that frigid morning in Columbia , Robert would have loved to meet them.

* * *

He and Miss Marlowe headed back to the Lab, even though they still had three other incidents to inspect. The new turn of events at the Sinclair Residence was grounds for informing Rosalind immediately— _and_ he should like to warm up and grab some breakfast before returning to work.

Apparently, all it took to convince the patriarch of the Sinclair family to use his son’s experimental solution was Robert’s own word. Dangerous as that was, to take a man’s word simply because of his position, he was none the less _very_ pleased that he and Rosalind were in such a position to garner that kind of trust. It made for things to go on quite smoothly. There were only a few men citywide, perhaps only _two_ , who would challenge them otherwise.

“Very glad that’s over,” he started, not really intending to talk about anything in particular, only to distract himself from the wind whipping them on the barge.

Miss Marlowe smiled and nodded silently. To her breast she clutched the work notebooks he had entrusted to her. Her posturing made him consider what was so unique about her. This was her third week with them, the longest anybody had and would be tolerated.

She _enjoyed_ working with them? She had mentioned it to Leander, one of her peers. The impression he had of the both of them, however, was that they were not ones who cared to blend into societal norms. Perhaps that was it?

“I really do appreciate your help today, Miss Marlowe. And so does Rosalind. I understand it is quite early.”

“Thank-you. I am very grateful for the opportunity.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, her mouth pulling into a frown. “I’m not being presumptuous?”

It was quite an odd question. One who _was_ presumptuous did not usually ask if they were. He wondered if Mr. Sinclair and his sons had sparked the notion. Robert looked at her seriously. “Do you feel presumptuous?” He did not think she was.

She sighed. “I have been told that I am. I do not wish to be so at your or Madame Lutece’s expense.”

There was a sudden understanding he garnered, perhaps from gaining Rosalind’s memories, that there was also a subtle implication to Miss Marlowe’s concerns. She shared the same gender as Rosalind, and like his other self, there was also the connotation of a _name_ and how it preceded them regardless of their control.

“You are not,” he assured, though it did not seem to placate her. “And,” he said delicately, “I hope you don’t take _this_ as a presumption, but would you prefer it if we addressed you by your first name?”

His own question must have struck a chord with her, because her expression changed to something more agreeable. “That would be great, yes.”

He smiled. “Good.”

The Lab was not far from the Sinclair house, it being on the East end of Emporia, and he had Mr. Thompson drop them off in the plaza right in front of it. Activity was thankfully minimal on account of the weather. Robert let himself imagine Rosalind had put the kettle on earlier, and it was ready to be poured into a cup, steam bringing feeling back to his lips and nose. His stomach grumbled. Maybe an extra lump of sugar as well.

No sooner had they walked up the porch steps and back into the foyer, and a collection of telegrams was handed to him, and Rosalind sent them back out again.

He had a terrible feeling today was going to be a very long day. He wondered if Gwendolyn would feel the same about taking notes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n:
> 
> Fleshing out this world and creating characters is quite a doozy. The kind of job the Luteces have in regards to Columbia and its daily function would have been busy, especially in the early years as they learned all the aches and pains of a new city.
> 
> Deep questions this chapter:
> 
> -Will Robert get his tea this morning? Poor guy. He works so hard.  
> -And Miss Marlowe. Hrmmm. Murder of Crows is released in 1895…
> 
> Some trivia while doing research:  
> -The rubber balloon was invented in 1824 by Michael Faraday, an English scientist known for his studies on electromagnetism.


	5. De minimus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Robert still running errands, Rosalind is left at home just as busy working on equations.

****

_“Of the little things.”_

* * *

For a surprisingly neat man, Robert took horrible notes. Or rather, he organized them terribly in their journals. It was not really all that surprising they had developed the same personal shorthand, only a few abbreviations lost in translation between them, but his manner of organization left her frustrated. Time that could be spent working was wasted trying to decipher whether _‘see chart manifold’_ meant the manifold of December’s weather on page twenty, the power graph on thirty-five, or one he hadn’t created yet and left a blank page following the phrase.

Rosalind sighed irritably.

This was _precisely_ the reason they worked together, so there was no more inconsistency. She would have to input the numbers from both and hope—scientists did not _hope_ —that the results were what he was expecting. Either way, they’d discuss it when he returned.

Journal in hand, she walked to the gramophone and started the needle; _Mozart, Flute and Harp Concerto in C, K. 299;_ something light and uninvesting. Although, if this session was going to be maddening, she might put on a stronger melody.

She flipped to the first chart and began inputting the variables on the chalkboard.

If _x_ is the tangent vector of _p_ , with _p_ being the change in temperature then—no, that would negate the equilibrium state she was trying to achieve. She swiped the board clean. Take the differential of _f_ at _p_ _…_ and yes, that was it. The numbers solved themselves out. Until they didn’t. Quickly, the last line of equations was swept away, and she redid them. She used a knuckle to wipe away the four and substitute a twenty-two point seven eight, adjusted the curve…

Squinting at the transitory solution, she stepped back a bit to assess her work. Everything _looked_ good, but any problems would soon make themselves apparent when she started the next set of formulas. She dragged another chalkboard from the main room, wincing at the pain that suddenly lanced up her arm; her hands still hurt when she gripped things too tightly. But she _could_ finally grip them, after five days of essentially being an invalid; five days which had been frustrating for both her and Robert. She could tell, though he’d not conveyed it verbally. Today, though it was only noon, was surely to increase his tension. The expression on his face when she’d handed him the telegrams earlier was the worst she’d seen it the whole week. She’d make it up to him.

The chalk hovered over the blackboard.

Yes, she would make it up—but she’d dwell on the thought more later—for now, the manifold equation.

With fervor, she resumed her work. After finding the derivative, she plotted out the differential and came up with a percentage of thirty three point three.

Rosalind stepped back from her work again. Excellent. The answer fell within the parameters Robert noted. In the main room, she adjusted the dials on the miniature reactor model, inputting the new figures. As a placeholder for a house, they had used a glass of water on it to quickly demonstrate any balance issues. When the machine reacted to its new functions, bucking and listing, the glass nearly fell to the floor. She checked and rechecked her work, from the dials to the board, and finally back to the notebook. She flipped through the pages hastily to see where she went wrong, pausing suddenly, as she noticed work in the margins that she hadn’t before. _Artistic_ work.

With both hands, she lifted the journal closer to examine it. Between the formulas and data, there were sketches; sketches of buildings, of elaborate sconces, of hummingbirds, of _her._ Her pouting over an alembic, fixing her hair, writing on the—

“You’ll wear out our needles again.”

She started at the sudden presence, closing the book shut with a snap.

Robert was at the gramophone, lifting the stylus off the record that was playing static; she wasn’t sure exactly when it had stopped playing music.

“Oh good, you’re back.” Rosalind gave him a small smile.

“Have been for several minutes,” he said slowly. “Is that it, then?” He sounded exhausted, the usual inflection in his voice gone, and replaced with a low directness. The change in him altered her mood, whatever good there was left of it, and she looked to the chalkboard instead of at his weary face.

“It is for now,” she hoped, calling him to the equation. “Tell me, does this looked balanced to you?” She needed another pair of eyes—or the same ones.

“It _looks_ balanced. And this is for increasing the energy output compensation, right?”

She hummed an affirmative.

“I assume you’ve run it already. What was the result?”

“A wet carpet.” He must be really tired if he didn’t want to run it himself. Or he was simply being logical and saving time.

He frowned, scanned the chalkboard again, and looked at the reactor. “Well, s _omething_ is off.” His lips pursed. “The ratio perhaps?”

“Ten per square pound?”

“Hrmm,” he said, and fell silent for a long while.

Having already done the work, she observed him then, as she was prone to doing whenever a significant length of separation occurred between them. Five hours was pushing the limits of the greatest time they’d ever spent apart, but she was beginning to discover that she never wished to be separated from him for any length of time. Even on still nights, she had to quell the urge to cross the hallway and watch him sleep, have him always within a head’s turn from her, as if a divergence between them would develop in the short division. The habit was irrational, she knew, but, it was also indescribable and intrinsic; she could not nor wished to explain it.

Robert shifted his weight to one leg and rubbed his jaw, feeling the stubble that usually was not there. The friction of his fingers over the hair snapped through the air. He glanced between the two chalkboards, following her work, and she was pleased to see his bemused expression; his tongue pressed to his teeth when he was completely absorbed in the mathematics. She did the same thing; _had_ done it, until Mother had chided her with the reasoning that it made her look buffoonish. Perhaps she and Mother agreed on _something_ , though, because Robert still retained the quirk, and she thought he looked rather adorable when he did so, like a precocious school-boy.

“Ah! Let’s try this,” he said, wiggling a finger across the surface of the board to erase and replace a number.

Rosalind handed him the stick of chalk.

“Your hands doing better this morning?” he spoke as he furiously scribbled new equations.

“Much better, yes. Fingers at least.”

“Well, _that_ is good news for today, if I ever heard it. Mine are. About ready. To…” He finished out the string of variables before his sentence. “Fall off,” he said finally, stepping back a bit from the board.

“There. How’s that?”

“It certainly _looks_ balanced,” she echoed, garnering a small grin from him. Again, the numbers fit within the parameters, and again, they were set into the reactor. Luckily, she was prepared to catch the glass when it fell, because he certainly wasn’t. Much of the water was already gone at this point from her first run.

Robert sighed. “Well that’s disappointing,” he said lamely.

“Cheer up,” she told him, opening the journal once more. “You’ll be glad to know I suspect what the problem is now.”

“Oh?” he asked, moving to stand next to her and peer over her shoulder.

She flipped again to his notes from yesterday and pointed to his instruction to the chart manifold. “This.”

The corners of his mouth fell. “I don’t see it.”

“Because it’s _not there_?” she asked, flipping to the next page that was blank.

He took the book from her to see for himself. “Well it should be.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Why isn’t it?”

“I must have forgotten it between diagnosing the _Lansdowne residence_ and consoling the widowed _Mrs. Lansdowne,_ as her son was attending to his wife and young children. She seemed absolutely stricken with the opinion that I resembled her late Thomas.”

If she remembered correctly, the Lansdownes accumulated their wealth from business in real estate. The young Mr. Lansdowne couldn’t stress it enough that his father’s money was well spent buying a piece of Heaven. A hackneyed statement, but at the very least, mildly flattering. She was more interested in the elderly woman than her sentimental heir, anyway. How was the senior woman handling the altitude?

“Did she help you with repairs?” she said in jest.

At this, Robert grimaced and glanced sidelong at her.

“She _helped_ me to tea and Turkish delight, which was a favorite snack of his. I know I’ve a bit of a sweet tooth, but not quite for that.” He furrowed his brows, his expression growing longer, when he saw her amusement. “And you were being facetious,” he realized, “Though I don’t see what you find particularly humorous about that. If you recall, I spent nearly six hours there. It could have been three at the most, if there were two of me,” he said dryly.

Rosalind took his hand suddenly without knowing what to do with it, perhaps only that she could feel them now in the absence of bandages and pain. Robert’s features softened at her abruptness as he looked at their hands. She examined them as well, the warmth of his palm and still slightly chilled fingers. The bitter mood she’d had earlier returned, and for a moment, she observed him again, observed how her foolishness affected him so fully now. Her lips twisted into a frown. He would not suffer the cold alone again. If he wanted to, she would write and he would dictate. Or he could simply sit fireside and watch her work, like father had done when she was a girl.

“Come,” she said, leading him to the sofa. He followed, shoes shuffling across the carpet as a testament to his weary schedule; he all but collapsed onto the boxed velvet. Wordlessly, she switched the chalk in his hand for the notebook in hers. “I’ll make the chart.”

His amicable smile was the last thing she saw before turning to the blackboards, and it left one on her face.

“We’ll begin the table,” he said.

Rolling the chalk stick between her fingers, she anticipated the flood of data she would receive. Like a single unit, their work flow became so fluid, it was nigh impossible to determine whether she started, or Robert finished. Or when he added computations in the middle and she substituted a variable here, for another there. In secret, she loved that moment when they were in perfect synchronization; that point when she was writing before he spoke, when he was speaking before she wrote.

“December 9, a decrease of twenty-three joules at negative seven degrees Celsius,  fifteen at negative four. December 11, twenty joules at negative three…”

Rosalind attacked the board with a speed that threatened to snap the chalk in half. Line after line, her flurry of numbers and variables grew, and page after page, the tempo of his speech accelerated until he sprang from the couch, and he was at her side, filling in the rest of the equation she could not get to fast enough.

“The constant here is-”

“-Seven, which makes the rate decrease at-”

“Twice, no-”

“Three times-”

“ _Four.”_

“So increasing the output to compensate for the mass suspension-” She ducked under his arm to write it in; he slid over just enough to give her room to do so. Very often and very quickly they became a tangle of limbs in their race to reach the solution. Mother would contemptuously say it was very improper to be on her knees, very unbecoming of a gentleman to lean and have his hand on the small of her back. Rosalind dismissed the thought, using Robert’s leg as purchase to get back on her feet. The muscles of his thigh tensed beneath her fingers and his writing paused. He was disoriented for a moment, then extended his hand to help her up.

“Thank-you. The suspension increases at point oh eight,” she told him.

“Yes, the output should balance out,” he added, resuming his stride. “Leaving only the differential-”

“-and the limit to solve,” she finished, already craning her neck to work it out. Stooping under her arm now, he scribbled the formulas in the bottom corner of the board, and she used his shoulder to stabilize herself as she stood on the toes to reach the top.

“The highest degree is what?” she panted.

“Cubed. It—”

There was a knock on the door, and they both stared at the rather uncertain girl standing in the doorway.

Rosalind sighed harshly, dropping back onto her heels, but Robert answered politely enough.

“Yes?”

Miss Marlowe chewed her bottom lip. “I hope I haven’t interrupted you. It’s 2:30 and I was unsure if you’d eaten. The both of you,” she added, meeting her eyes.

She finally noticed the tray she was holding, and the contents of it; croissants, cheese, and some tea, all from their kitchen. Rosalind stiffened slightly at the fact that she had been roaming around their house unattended. The knowledge made her stomach tighten even as it grumbled at the sight of food.

“No, we have not.” He relieved her of the tray. “Thank-you so very much.” His back to Miss Marlowe, he raised his eyebrows at Rosalind.

“Er, yes,” she said, trying with much effort to sound as polite as he. “How very thoughtful. You needn’t have worried about us, though. Have you eaten yourself?”

She nodded. “I have, thank-you.” There was a pregnant pause and she excused herself. “I should leave you to your work.”

Robert bowed slightly. “We appreciate the gesture, Gwendolyn.”

Rosalind arched an eyebrow when she had gone back into the foyer.

He simply scowled at her expression. “Oh, it is not so concerning,” he said, beginning to divide the food evenly. “She’s asked to be called by her first name, if we could help it.”

She joined him, setting the tea. “She just made this request spontaneously?”

“Not entirely. The idea I got was that she was bothered by the immediate association to her uncle that preceded her.”

“Hmm.” The association of a name preceding her was something she knew and despised greatly. She could relate to the woman in that respect, but not to why she chose to open up to Robert solely. Or maybe she did?

“She fancies you.”

He gave an exasperated sigh. “Honestly, Rosalind, you’ve thought every front girl we’ve hired fancies me.”

“I do not!” she huffed. “What about that Williams girl? Barely even two days at the front desk and she was planning all sorts of picnics and outings for you.”

Setting down the knife, he eyed her skeptically. “And if they do, why does it bother you so much?”

“B-Bother? Bother _me_?” She felt flustered suddenly, heat in her cheeks and ears. “Because it’s distracting,” she exclaimed. She folded her arms across her chest. “I thought we were discussing Gwendolyn.”

“We were. Now,” he said, picking up the utensil once more, “Please be kind to her. She is a nice young lady who does her duties very well and puts in extra. For the niece of a Founder, or any sort of person who thinks themselves proper, that is quite a feat,” he murmured.

Again, she agreed. A sour note that was falling between them and the assistants they hired was the notion of doing menial work. What did they think working for them entailed? Prestige? A good reference? They would get neither if that was the mindset they chose to disillusion themselves with.

“On that note, you may believe that two people can run a business, a laboratory, and a household, but at least I’m the more realistic of the both of us. And _realistically_ , it’s getting rather difficult and frustrating having to find a new receptionist every week simply because of your mood.”

The teaspoon she was stirring with stopped. “ _My_ mood?”

“I shall not bring up your issue with the dismissal of your maids.”

She scoffed. She hardly needed them to begin with. And after Robert came through, she did not need them wondering how a man had suddenly entered a locked house in the middle of the night.

“And back to Gwendolyn, I am bringing to your attention how very capable and invaluable she has been to us in the last week. If that doesn’t change your tolerance of her, I’m not sure what will.”

“And what of this?” she gestured to the tray. Would he so easily dismiss this blatant disregard for their privacy? Not that they hadn’t allowed her into the main part of the house, but she was always in the corner of her eye when she was.

Robert glared at her. “She’s _trying_ to be helpful. Perhaps not always in the _best_ way, but that’s what we hired her for, yes?” He sighed again, offering her a plate of two croissants with cheese spread on the inside. “Can this matter with assistants be done with? I hate to bicker with you. I’d much rather we focused our energy on something we’d enjoy.” This time the corners of his mouth tugged up slowly. “Like the infusions. We can’t let Fink get the better of us simply because some bad weather settled in.”

Blast him. There was something simply charming about his smile that always seemed to placate her mood. This cannot become a habit, especially if he figured out he has that kind of effect on her.

She nodded, but before she could answer him properly, there was yet another knock on the door. Despite it being open, Gwendolyn stood in the doorway, unwilling to cross it. “Madame Lutece, Mr. Cunningham is here for portraits?”

Portraits! She’d completely forgotten they were today, and judging by the baffled expression on Robert’s face, she’d forgotten to tell him as well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n:
> 
> -Portraits? Whatever could they be for? Can this day get any buisier?


	6. Non incautus futuri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert wonders how the new revelation of portraits fits into their busy day.

 

** Chapter 6- Non incautus futuri-  **

_“Not unmindful of the future.”_

 

* * *

 

“Portraits?”

Rosalind nodded at the floor, tapping her fingers over her lips in contemplation. “Yes, I’d completely forgotten he was coming _today_.”

“Could you also have forgotten to tell me he _would_ be coming?” She’d have to had known for a week or two. Today was not exactly their best day appearance-wise, let alone their schedule. His face was chapped and weathered, hers smeared with bits of chalk. Her attire, much kudos for dressing herself, was still loose, and though he did not like to admit it, _sloppy_.

“Hrmm?” She glanced up at him, surprised for the slightest of moments at his proximity, having forgotten about the issue with the reactor balance they had just been working on. Her eyes stayed on the stubble of his chin and flicked up finally to his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Robert exhaled wearily, rubbing them. “No point in worrying about it, I suppose. Why are we having a sitting anyway?” There was no particular reason he could see for photographs.

“It’s for the papers. And the museum. And,” she inhaled, looking sheepish. “I should like to have something of us together.”

“Oh.” He looked at her suddenly, then to the wall that carried several photographs—none of which had him. Why would they? But her interest—or was it disinterest?—in photographs was only something he knew from her memories. All of them, besides the one of herself as a girl, hung because she cared to think _of_ them, but did not particularly care _for_ them. Mother and Father, and Uncle, er, _Aunt_ Freddie, and the old lodge house, Roseleigh. They held both pleasant and unpleasant memories for him as well; riding lessons on Pippa, insect collecting in the marsh, hunting with Father, his first corset fit..fitting, an unwanted embroidery set…

A dull ache pulsed behind his left eye, and he blinked rapidly before he knew his vision would narrow and flare. Immediately he looked away, but he could already sense his hearing muffling.

“-notlikethisthough,” she said distantly.

“Like what?” he strained, pinching the bridge of his nose. He snapped his eyes shut.

“Not looking like _this,_ ” she repeated, reaching to wipe chalk from his jaw. “A ragamuffin. What’s wrong?”

“A bit of a spell,” he gritted.

“What triggered it?”

“Photographs on the wall.”

“I can take them down,” she said quickly.

Robert dared to open his eyes. “No, no. I like them up there. They help. I just wasn’t careful.”

She seemed unsure.

“Mr. Cunningham is waiting for us,” he reminded.

Her mouth parted open as if hearing the information for the first time, and she pushed her hair back into place.

“Right. I’ll apologize to him. You eat.”

As much as he wanted to be with her and explain their situation to Mr. Cunningham, he knew it best if he recuperated lest he have an episode in the foyer. He nodded, and she lingered a second more to make certain her demand was being followed. For good measure he took a bite of a croissant. That seemed to placate her because she turned on her heel to head to the front of the house.

Eating wasn’t entirely a ruse, however, because the warm bread and salty cheese reminded him that he hadn’t had a bite to eat all day, nor a proper dinner last night, and he scarfed the small morsel down faster than what would be acceptable for a gentleman of his standing, but acceptable be damned! He was tired as a stag-hound after the hunt. He feared if he stayed still long enough, he’d fall into a deep slumber.

His handling of the tea was more civilized. No sense in spilling a fine brew. It wasn’t perfect—Rosalind hadn’t made it, but he was glad for it, however steeped it was. The steaming vapors were the most wonderful thing he experienced that day, tingling his nostrils, and the stringent fumes helped to clear his mind.

He sipped it slowly, enjoying the warmth that filled his body, pondering how well Rosalind was conversing with their guest. If she was distracted, well then, she could be a bit _untoward_ someone unfamiliar with her mood. Whenever he had an episode, she dropped everything she was doing so suddenly, so intently. It would frighten him if he did not find it so selfishly captivating. Normally, he frowned upon coddling and fussing, but with Rosalind, it was less maternal instinct and more…penitent lover.

He frowned even at that description because he felt it didn’t fully grasp what he experienced when she turned her attention fully to him. She didn’t hover over him, or lay at his feet, she was always at his side. Always, with a profound sadness in her eyes, like she had wronged him in some way. Sometimes he did not shut his eyes in pain, but because he could not bear to look at her. He wished she would remember he was getting better at controlling the spells. He could go several weeks now without an incident.

Or was it something else? If it was guilt, it was one they shared. _He_ had been the one to walk over. She did not make him do it.

“I’ll let him know,” he heard Rosalind’s voice approaching from the hall, and she peeked into the drawing room. “Mr. Cunningham’s been most gracious. We’re his last appointment of the day, so he’s more than willing to wait while we get refreshed.” She lowered her voice slightly. “I think he’s worried he’ll lose his exclusivity to us.”

“Splendid. How much time did you ask for?”

She winced. “Not enough for a shave, I’m afraid.”

“Ah.” He was hoping for that much. Still, better to have some time than none at all.

Rosalind had Gwendolyn accompany Mr. Cunningham to set up in the drawing room, and Robert followed her up the stairs. At the top of the third floor, he asked her if she needed assistance straightening her attire. Rather abashedly, she turned to him saying, “Is it that bad?”

“You look fine, considering. I only ask because of the pictures.” Insulting her was not his intent. If these were for historical and archival—and personal—records, he was fairly certain the both of them felt the same in wanting to look their best.

“Since you’re offering,” she said with a weak smile, leading the way into her bedroom.

Entering this part of the house, her bedroom, was as much reflective as it was apprehensive for him. His first real memories of this universe occurred here as he reconstructed his identity, sifting through a life he had not lived. Recollections of violent headaches and a warm pleasant hand throughout the entire ordeal welled within him upon sight of the ornately papered wall. It was also a very poignant model of how their separation made itself most apparent. Hairbrushes inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a dressing screen, a mahogany vanity; here, she was completely Rosalind Lutece, woman, and these were _her_ things that she did not share with him. Was it prudence or preference that she chose to bring him here to nurse him, to remind him of who he was?

She caught her reflection in the full length mirror, frowning at something only she found fault with, and she hastily began removing her tie.

“You can use the bathroom to freshen up,” she said, peering at him through the mirror.

Of course. She was probably going to change her whole attire. He didn’t see much point in it-- she looked perfectly fine. No amount of words from him would change her mind once she set it, however; as did he.

Robert made his way to her sink, examining his own self in the mirror. Surprisingly, he himself didn’t look all that terrible. In his assessment, he discovered that his eyes were not too weary, only too watery. The bags underneath them were not too far off the mark of a typical late night working on experiments. But his nose still ran slightly from the frigid temperatures that left his cheeks and lips reddened and chapped. A trip to the pharmacy again for some balm would be needed to treat that. He pushed warm water onto his face. Although it was meant to refresh, it reminded him that he would rather go back to bed. He grabbed one of her hand towels. It felt odd to dry his face while the stubble remained, like he was ill. He straightened his tie and smoothed his lapels.

“Are you ready?” he asked, stepping out of the bathroom.

“Just about.”

He could see that she was, needing only help with the finer details. She had chosen a cream cotton blouse over a dark pleated skirt with matching crimson necktie and cummerbund. He liked the very rich contrast it had with her skin and hair. She presented her back to him first so he could buckle the cummerbund, then her bowtie.

“I thought I might wear gloves,” she said softly, waving around a pair.

He glanced at them for a moment. He’d nearly forgotten about her bandages appearing in the photo. They weren’t too conspicuous now that they were only on her palms. Depending on how they posed, they might be more or less visible.

“Do you _want_ to wear them?” He pulled the loops on her tie taut and glanced up from her neck.

She sighed. “Not really. But I don’t want to cringe every time I see this picture.”

“You can bring them down and we can ask Mr. Cunningham if he can work something out.” He gave her a reassuring smile, one that put a matching expression on her lips.

“I like that,” Rosalind said, performing a final once-over in the mirror. “Not very many people can say their reflection gives them the best advice.” She grinned though the looking glass at him.

“Well, if _I’m_ to be the one giving advice, then you’ve still got a bit of chalk on your cheek.”

“Hrmm,” she said, rubbing at it rapidly. “Better?”

“Very.”

“I hope we haven’t spent too much time.”

“Shall we?” he offered her his arm.

They went down the stairs together, starting each flight with the same foot, sounding as one person descending. When they reached the bottom, he gave her arm a light pat before they separated.

“Again, we appreciate your kind gesture, Mr. Cunningham,” Rosalind said.

Mr. Cunningham, with his round eyes and aquiline nose, was not a man that Robert knew very well, but had had many sessions with Rosalind since before he had come over. His studio was quite popular in the city, especially in Emporia. Perhaps that was why. Despite the popularity, the man managed to stay humble enough in his transition from middle to upper class.

“Please Madame Lutece, the appreciation is mine. Now,” he said, gesturing to his equipment, “I was thinking we might first do a formal set of the two of you. Then a few singular portraits-”

“-Singular?” Rosalind interjected. “Could we perhaps remain together?”

“Is that what you prefer?” Mr. Cunningham glanced at Robert for his approval.

“Yes,” he explained. “We’ve, er, always been together since we were children. Since neither of us has a significant other-”

“-You’d like to remain together,” he reiterated. “I understand. Estelle’s got two cousins who are twins. They make for excellent photography subjects, even if I can’t tell them apart most of the time. So, we’ll do a formal set, some with you around your machines—I’ll leave the details of that to you—and end with some candids. Shall we begin?”

“Let’s,” Rosalind said.

Mr. Cunningham followed them into the drawing room pointing out several locations he’d scouted out. “You can sit by the fireplace here, there’s nice light coming from both the fire and the window, by the window there, or by the chalkboard and bookshelf. Where would you like to be?”

Robert glanced at Rosalind, shrugging. He was fine with all of the suggestions.

“Which ever you think works best, Mr. Cunningham. We defer to your expertise.” Her words seemed to be exactly what he wanted to hear because he smiled widely. “The fireplace, then.”

He and Rosalind moved to position themselves on the couch, and she smoothed her skirt down before she sat. It reminded him of her concern, and he brought up the issue of her hands.

“Bit of an accident in the laboratory,” she explained.

“Not a problem ma’am. Comes with the occupation,” Mr. Cunningham smiled, wiggling his fingers, and they both could see that his hands were permanently stained with silver nitrate. “Actually, that solves two problems. Can I have you sit down, Mr. Lutece? Your height gives me a difficult long shot.”

“Sit?” Robert asked suddenly. He was very much against that idea, lest he fall asleep, but regardless, he sat down. He chose a spot that was the most uncomfortable—difficult on a velvet couch.

“Good. Now, if you’ll angle towards me. Madame, could you stand next to him, facing me, but angled towards him? Excellent. And if you rest one hand on his shoulder and the other behind—Perfect.”

They remained in that position for a few seconds as Mr. Cunningham activated the shutter. “Very nice,” he murmured over his camera, “I think you’ll be pleased with this shot.”

The rest of the photographs were very nearly the same as the first. Two more poses by the fireplace were taken, during which he yawned uncontrollably, much to his embarrassment, and Mr. Cunningham was more than happy to switch up the order of photos they took. They stood at the chalkboard they were working at earlier, now with the instruction to carry on as they normally would while their picture was being taken. Robert was concerned he’d have to sacrifice his focus for both, but as soon as he became immersed in the mathematics again, he completely forgot the camera was even there.

When they were done—or when Mr. Cunningham was done, because they still hadn’t solved the problem yet, he asked, “Are you comfortable with some pictures in the main part of the house?”

He knew he was referring to the Contraption, amongst other things. When he first arrived, he never paid much mind to it in regards to other people. It was special to him foremost as his doorway to her, and that it was, so far, the pinnacle of their work. But Rosalind was always so concerned about the Contraption, and over time he learned why. If anybody got the slightest inkling of what it truly was, it would cause a downfall like the world had never seen, one that he was sure would be pinned on them. His feelings for the machine were as strong as hers now.

It was she who answered though. “If you could refrain from any full shots of the machine? Partials will be fine.”

“I suspected as much. I’ll do my best to omit it as much as possible.”

The three of them moved to the main room, Mr. Cunningham pouting at the lack of natural lighting of it. “Might I borrow the young lady from the front desk?” he asked. “Estelle’s down with a cold. Must be all this weather. She usually accompanies me when I have sessions with more esteemed clients.”

“Of course,” Rosalind said. “I’ll get her.”

As they waited for the women, Mr. Cunningham turned to Robert. “The symmetry you and your sister possess together is perfect. Even Estelle’s cousins aren’t that coordinated, and they’re identical!”

Robert smiled, moreso to himself. “It is a bit like looking at my reflection.”

“Ah, it’s more than that. Don’t mean to presume, but you play the piano?”

“As a hobby. Rosalind is better than I am.”

“Have you ever played a call and response piece? It looks, to me, a lot like that.”

Call and response? The phrases were not about reflecting each other so much as responding and communicating with the same thought. It required a depth of understanding that both participants had to have in order for the message to be fully realized. Maybe he’d play a piece with her later. As far as experiments went, they’d never tried _that_ before.

The man must have taken his silence for disagreement, because he added, “Now, I don’t have much talent in music beyond an appreciation of it, so my metaphor’s probably off the mark-”

“-No, no. It’s quite possibly the best I’ve heard.”

 Rosalind returned with Gwendolyn and Mr. Cunningham smiled. “Hello again, ma’am. Would you care to be my assistant today? Oh, it’s nothing too difficult, you’ll be holding up a reflective panel to bring light to this part of the house. Quite boring actually.”

“No, of course,” Gwendolyn said.

“Alright,” he clapped his hands, directing them to a spot closer to the generators and chalkboards and father away from the Contraption. “Let’s have the both of you there, and my lovely assistant over there. If you’ll be so kind as to hold this up,” he added, handing her the panel. It was rather large, like a mirror, as wide as she was tall, but not looking particularly heavy. She showed no difficulty in carrying it. “Good okay. Now if you’ll just keep it angled in this general direction, and Mr. and Madame Lutece, if you’ll take a standard pose first…”

For the next twenty minutes, the four of them slinked around the bulky Contraption to the instructions of Mr. Cunningham. In that time, Robert had come to appreciate the man of his own accord and not merely Rosalind’s words. He liked that he put up with their insistent requests, but was still just as particular as they were with his own—and really, they had given him free reign with his direction for pictures. He had to admit that he was actually looking forward to how these turned out.

“I should have them developed in two week’s time,” he said, putting away his equipment. “Normally I’d have them a few days earlier, but the weeks before Christmas seem to fill up faster’n I can blink.”

Robert helped him lift his canvas portfolio. “The holidays always seem to bring in more work than as they near. We can surely attest to that.”

“Guess that makes you enjoy them more I suppose.”

“Indeed.”

They walked him to the foyer. “Well, it was quite the pleasure working with all of you.” He shook hands with the three of them. “Shall I make an appointment to return on, say, the 28th?”

“Yes,” Rosalind answered. “Gwendolyn, could you set that date?”

“What would be a good time?” Robert added. Today was quite an example of how much could be forgotten.

Mr. Cunningham shrugged, scratching at his temple. “Is the same time alright? I can arrange it so you’re the last client that day in the event something comes up?”

In the silence that occurred when they all glanced at one another for consideration, the front door swung open, and the plain man that walked in was unrecognizable in comparison to the heroic colossi not two blocks from here that shared his beared face.

“Oh!” Gwendolyn exclaimed, having laid eyes on him first. “Father Comstock. Good afternoon, sir.”

Comstock straightened his hair after removing his hat. “Don’t worry about me, child,” he said with an easy smile. “Finish your business with Mr. Cunningham first. If the Israelites can wait forty years in the desert, I can wait but a few minutes.”

Robert shared a look with Rosalind who in turn nodded at Comstock. This facade was only in place because of the other people in the room. The _Prophet’s_ visits, when it was just the three of them, were less humble, and more demanding. This business they had with him was always something that left a bad taste in his mouth and a dull throb behind his left eye.

“Would you like to wait in the drawing room, Sir?” she asked.

To his ears only, Robert knew the honorific was difficult for her to say, and one she said only when there were others around.

“Why thank-you, Madame,” Comstock said and inclined his head. “You two have a fine afternoon,” he told Gwendolyn and Mr. Cunningham, before following Rosalind deeper into the house.

“The same time would be great, Mr. Cunningham,” Robert finalized, giving him an apologetic smile. “Thank-you once again for everything. Rosalind gives you her thanks as well.”

“It was very nice to have finally met you in person, Mr. Lutece. And thank-you again Miss Marlowe for your help,” he tipped his bowler hat to them both before leaving.

As soon as the door shut, Robert turned to Gwendolyn suddenly. “Mr. Comstock is a very _private_ person,” he said delicately, “He doesn’t like to be disturbed. We mentioned this when we first hired you, but whenever he is here, I’d like to remind you to remain in the foyer until he leaves. If there is an urgent matter, which I shall leave to your discretion, use the bell pull.”

She nodded seriously. “I remember, Mr. Lutece.”

“I suspected you had, but I wanted to make sure the matter was clear. Thank-you.”

He bowed his own exit and closed the foyer door, making certain that it was fully shut. Rosalind and Comstock, he could already see, were at the Contraption. He made his way to them, closing the main room door behind him as well and catching the end of their conversation.

“-really isn’t a good time. We’ve been correcting issues with the reactors all week.”

Comstock gave her a withering glance. “There’s two of you now, isn’t there?”

“Yes, there _is,_ ” Robert answered evenly. He could feel both their eyes on him, but he looked at neither, making his way to the control panel. One glance at Rosalind’s fuming expression, or that man’s condescension, and he was unsure of what he might do, only that it would not be pleasant. He was tired, he was still hungry, the winter chill he’d spent six hours in had not left his bones, and he did not have the _energy_ left to tolerate a man who fancied himself something grand when they all knew what he truly was.

He would start the machine when the facade truly ended. “The house would be clear if you scheduled your viewings more consistently. We’ve had visitors all day,” Robert said as he made adjustments. If there was one thing he picked up during their sessions with Comstock, it was that the man harbored an irrational fear of the limits of his control. Whenever he was made aware of it, he became much easier to manage—if they did so carefully.

There was a harsh sigh. “I’ll set something,” Comstock muttered irritably under his breath.

With his back to him, Robert smirked. “Let’s begin.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some questions:
> 
> >What do you suppose they’ll view in their session with Comstock?
> 
> >And what do you think of the relationship Robert has with the man? He’s certainly a second-hand participant and inclusion to the complicated relationship Rosalind has with Comstock.


	7. Modus Operandi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosalind contemplates during their session with Comstock.

 

** Chapter 7: Modus operandi **

_“Method of operation”_

 

* * *

 

Once, when she was a girl, around nine or so, she witnessed her father argue with the Duke of Barrington on the Empire’s necessity on the coast of Alexandria. The subject of the revolts is nothing she thought even mildly enlightening, but that her father, in good standing and lacking significant peerage, challenged a man of much higher respect on a trivial matter, while he chose to ignore the blatant shortcomings of Baron Carlton, was something she did. Later, in the privacy of their home, he consoled her on the possible repercussions the family might suffer from his actions. Despite her mother’s displeasure at her blatantness, she dared to wonder aloud to him, why the influential Duke and not the slandering Baron? Her father answered, ‘ _To be angry with a weak man, is proof that you are not very strong yourself.’_

She learned an important lesson that day and the years that followed about the measure of a man, and later still, about a son’s silent anger with his father. The shade that hung over Robert was greater in his universe than hers. While her damnable sex was always her contention, the distinction of father as cavalier cost the son dearly. He received no grants from generous benefactors, no surplus of social invites, no easy friendship in the schoolyard, or so he hinted. So with his back turned to the Prophet of Columbia after having put him in his place, Rosalind considered deeply why he chose to unveil his emotions to a man who could turn the city on them in an instant. And she had never seen him act this way before, never seen him act with such audacity. She would have been frightened if Comstock had not been preoccupied with his own self.

The man already knew to occupy the chair from the desk in the corner, and he crossed his legs impatiently while they began the necessary startup. From the side closet, she retrieved the blackboard specifically used for the occasion. Every caution was made to ensure it remained out of sight—on it was every major event Comstock chose to use for his preachings; dangerous to all of them, like Robert’s tense shoulders and clenched jaw. That he had not looked at her since he entered the room was troubling.

“Would you power up the second floor generators?” she asked him, equally as delicate and commanding. She would do it herself if she was not concerned of what the outcome leaving both men in the same room would be. Robert peered at her over his shoulder, nodding silently, and he exited through the drawing room. Rosalind followed him to activate the generator there, but he told her coolly, “I’ll get this one as well,” leaving her with just the one closest to the Contraption.

The generators scattered throughout the house were always so cumbersome, but it was necessary to keep them in different wings because they discharged enormous amounts of heat, and less significantly, created minuscule Lutece fields. Separately, they were not problematic, but putting them all together in their residence would give way to trouble. They were her machines--and Fink's production, and while they worked efficiently, they didn’t work _perfectly._ Built in haste, she had to ensure they worked, not that they were pleasing to the eye—such was the downfall of many “scientists,” like those not too long ago at the Exposition; their machines were sleek, but aesthetics did not convince observers, especially when accompanied by smoke. Perhaps sometime in the future she and Robert would perfect the generators, but for now, they worked absolutely fine. She could manage the bulk of extra wires and a machine in the corner of the room in place of an armchair. First and foremost, this was a laboratory.

Robert’s steps were light and quick throughout the house before being drowned out by the generators coming to life. She flipped the lever to activate hers, pleased with the needles of all the meters holding at the right numbers. Powering up the Contraption took careful coordination. She and Robert practiced a strict general rule to never step within the tear aperture unless necessary, and never when it was on. They were well aware of what would happen should they get caught between universes; the girl’s finger, an apple, and a bird were demonstrative enough. So it was to Comstock as well, which was good on their part. No hassle dealing with his impetuousness.

She cast a glance at him in the corner. He seemed to be entertained by the visible arcs of electricity that crackled at the tops of the coils. Bored, with that though, he rolled his neck and a random  journal on the desk caught his attention, and he started rifling through the pages of it. Rosalind frowned, annoyance tugging at her mouth. Luckily, it was an old notebook of hers about electrical currents and magnetic fields, and not one Robert had written in. This new awareness of his sketching habits, and their _personal_ subject matter, was cause for her to consider careful placement of those as well. Was her house no longer private? She rolled her eyes, in the process catching glimpse of Robert upstairs through the hole in the roof. He stared at her intently with a look that concerned her. She gave him a half smile that seemed to break his concentration, and he rubbed his neck sheepishly before heading down the stairs.

With the Contraption humming and crackling, Comstock seemed to sense that they were ready to begin the session, but she never started until she could see where Robert was with her own eyes.  A moment later, he walked back through the drawing room, and he nodded at her. Now that everything was in place, Robert standing next to her, Rosalind pulled the switch that opened the power sluice, feeding all power into the main collider.

The Contraption jolted alive with a searing magnificence that resonated throughout every fiber of her being, increasing with every whirring pulse until she scarcely dared to breathe, paralyzed by the stillness that bloomed. The suspension flooded all her senses that she felt she might deconstruct into an infinite of particles. It was like the breath of the universe sweeping over her skin, raising every strand of hair, an ancient comic scent, like a fiery heart of a star, scorching her lungs, but she could only fix her gaze upon the aperture of the machine, waiting to witness the veil of the universe lifting to reveal another. When she experienced these things, she thought of Robert, always; if he breathed the vapors of a dying sun, tasted the dust of creation, hovered on the edge of diffusion. She thought always, afterword, that she might ask him if he felt the same whenever a tear opened, and she thought always, if they could ever experience the stillness together.

An eternity passed, or perhaps a second. She blinked and breathed, and the tear materialized. A new world, unsuspecting of their prying eyes, carried on without knowledge of the glorious door that had just opened. She glanced sidelong at Robert, who peered into the world-window with the open-mouthed amazement of a child. Comstock leaned forward in his chair eagerly, waiting for the edges to expand and clear. One of them was to be disappointed, and she knew it would not be Robert. Once the Prophet saw there was no great prophecy, he irritably called for the next one, like it was some episcope slide of diagrams she could change because the demonstration was over. But, that was how he chose to use the machine, with a dulled mind, and she impassionately complied. So it was of every session with him. Tedious, but good for gathering data for later ones when he had gone.

This world they opened to was not Columbia— there were ice cream parlors and women in knee-high dresses and young men in leather jackets. A bridge over water in the distance clued them in to a possible location. A young lady with a large bow in her hair dared to cross the street with her suitor, laughing at the blaring horns of motorized carriages they stepped in front of. She glanced up curiously at them, whispering into her partner’s ear and pointed.

Rosalind pulled the switch to close the tear immediately. A window worked both ways, she learned. If someone were to crossover, well, there was no guaranteeing she could return them to where they came from. She could not choose where she opened them, per se, unless someone or something in that universe created a connection—such was the case with Robert. Often times, the tears they opened were useless; back alleys, office buildings, mundane things. Some were interesting enough, to her and Robert at least, to warrant further study. On one occasion, they had even opened up a tear to themselves, another pair of Rosalind and Robert with their Contraption. Truly, it was thrilling. The four of them conversed for a small time--what point in time they were at, recent breakthroughs, theories, but their meeting had to be cut short because they had Comstock with them. They parted with the hypothesis that they would meet again if they were destined to do so; her and the other Rosalind at least. Robert and his counterpart were skeptical.

Over the course of the next hour, they opened eight tears, most of which were indeterminable, and they spent far longer than necessary trying to see if there was anything they could use. These were Columbia now, but it could have been Columbia yesterday, or three months ago, or even three _years_ ago—a Columbia that took flight earlier than theirs. She was of the opinion that they should continue to look elsewhere at other tears, but Comstock insisted they look. Robert gave her an expression that looked like he _insisted_ Comstock go through and check for himself if he wanted to know so much. She grimaced at the fact the single stick of chalk in his hand was quickly becoming several broken pieces.

Wary of another altercation, she instead collapsed the one now for another. Better to press her luck with that than with the men. There was a pattern emerging, though she did not quite have all the data she needed to be certain, that the longer they spent opening tears, the more they were _influencing_ the subject matter and able to open it to an event they were looking for. She’d have to discuss it later with Robert.

“There, that one,” Comstock murmured, finally. He got up from his chair and walked closer to examine the tear, scratching at his beard.

It was evening, and snow fell beyond the large windows in the room. An elaborate clock sitting on the edge of a desk declared it to be 11:18.

“Yes, this is my desk,” he said. He stepped to it with an air of possessiveness, and Rosalind half expected him to step through and sit at it. She glanced casually at the meters of the machine to make sure the tear was stable. She’d warned him enough times that she didn’t really care to do so now. It wouldn’t stop him from his greedy curiosity. She caught Robert’s eye again, and he shrugged indifferently at the Prophet’s actions. They watched him reach into the tear gingerly and gather a document on the desk. He brought the paper back into their world, reading it quickly. The light from the electricity coursing through the Contraption was unforgiving to his aged face, illuminating every crease. It unnerved her how they were so close in years, but his visage was becoming very much like the Forefathers and Prophets he venerated.

“Write this down,” he told them. “40 at 49 Revere Way.”

The information didn’t seem nearly as important enough to log down on the blackboard and a head tilt from Robert as he rolled the chalk in his fingers told her didn’t think so as well. Still, Rosalind went to a desk and wrote on the corner of an old pharmacy statement, if only to placate the man.  There was the sound of a door opening and she heard Comstock snarl angrily, “ _What_ the _hell_ are—”

She whipped around at the voice, only to see _two_ Prophets, one on each side of the tear.

“-Y _ou_ ,” the Comstock in the tear finished, now with recognition.

“What’s the date?” the Prophet on this side asked. He handed his other self back the document.

Sniffing as if he had been out in the snow himself, he answered, “December 28th, Brother. The Lord will grant you an opening. Be swift.” He brushed aside the document between them.“Take it,” he said. “I’m done.” And he was, for he turned around, retrieved an item from the drawer of his desk and left the room again. The Comstock here returned to studying his new treasure, silent for several seconds.

“Do you want to investigate further?” Rosalind drawled. If they were done here, she had other work she’d like to return to.

“Hrmm?” he looked up suddenly from the paper as if remembering they were still here. “No, no. That will be all, my dear,” he said cheerily, heading for the drawing room.

She arched at eyebrow at Robert. _My Dear?_ He must have gotten something very prized to leave him in such a good mood.

“Very well,” Robert said. “Will you inform us of the next time you arrive?”

She winced. So he was willing to press his luck as well.

“We’ll work something out,” he murmured and left.

Robert closed the tear, beginning to power down the machine. She peered though the drawing room room to make sure that Comstock had really left, then stepped closer to Robert.

“You shouldn’t have spoken to him like that,” she chided.

He looked up from the control panel, his lips thin. “But _he’s_ allowed to speak to you as he pleases?”

“ _No_ ,” she iterated, “But I can handle a few lashes, if it means everything else.” The moment she heard herself say it aloud, she regretted it, because it gave her the image of a loyal hound bringing in the hunt for its master.

“I know I wasn’t here for much of this… _arrangement,”_ he said bitterly, “But I dislike having this pussyfoot nonsense. _You_ gave him everything _;_ his Lamb, his City, his Sight-”

“- _We_ gave it to him,” she corrected, which made him start as if she had said something absurd. “We did,” she said again. “Which means, yes, he needs us.”

His features softened, and she saw how weary he was again.

“And we need him?” he posed.

As much as she would not like to admit it, yes, they needed him too. They needed his interest, since he gave nothing else. His funding stopped when his interest did, and as they witnessed, he was very interested in keeping his power. Would that change any time in the near future?

Rosalind licked her lips. “For now.” Robert said nothing, merely considering her words, and his silence unnerved her. “Let’s shut off the generators,” she waved. He made for the drawing room, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“We’ll switch,” she told him with a small smile.

After a grateful sigh, he uttered, “Thank-you,” and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

While he handled the one in this room, she set to deactivate the rest. There was no designated order to shut them off, but she preferred to do it in the order they laid around the house. After the one in the main room that Robert took care of, it was the drawing room next, then the one at the top of the stairs, the two in the guest bedroom, and the last one at the end on the second floor corridor. A more personal preference of hers was observing what got caught in the small Lutece fields around them. Usually it was dust, a perfect sphere made visible by the grainy particles. Often she found stray bolts and paper fasteners in the suspension, and as the fields collapsed, they were first pulled toward the magnetized machines before falling to the ground.

The house became silent again without the heavy thrum of the machines and her footsteps down the stairs echoed loudly.

“I apologize for my behavior earlier,” Robert called out, hearing her steps. From the staircase, she could see him as he sat on the couch with his arms resting on his knees. He groaned and leaned back against the cushions. “Today’s events have been exhausting.” She said nothing until she reached the bottom step.

"This week _has_ been quite busy, hasn't it?" she said, entering the drawing room.

Slouching on the couch, legs spread undignified, Robert slid his eyes slowly to her as she made her way to the tray from earlier.

" _Unbelievably_."

Her stomach growled while she tried to salvage the now cold cup of tea. He chuckled lightly. 

"Do you want some?" she asked.

He waved his decline.

"If we can't find a viable stabilizing solution for the reactors," she started between bites of hardened croissant, "we may have to assemble a seasonal team to handle this."

He hummed his agreement.

"Oh," he exclaimed, sitting up slightly, “I've nearly forgotten to mention about this morning! I met a rather interesting young man. A chemist from the Authority-" He paused to yawn and settled back down again. "Excuse me. Leander Sinclair. Developed a compound for our deicing solution that further lowers the freezing point. I supervised the usage of it on one of the reactors at his residence, and I'll collect results tomorrow. Hopefully, it works."

"Ah, that does sound promising."

"Details are in today’s journal," he pointed to the table near the window. "I've asked him to prepare a formal presentation if it is."

Rosalind followed his direction to retrieve the journal. The prospect of a new deciding solution--one that worked--was really good news. They might have to rework all the calculations they'd done this entire week, but in the future, it could save them much more; her patience and energy, being the most to benefit. She lifted a few books, unable to find the one she was looking for.

"Which one?" It was a red one with green trim, if she wasn't mistaken. Maybe it was outside with Gwendolyn?

“Robert?"

She turned around, only to find him asleep, cheek pressed against the couch back, arms crossed, breathing deep and regular. She would find it amusing if she wasn't aware of how tired he was. Rather than wake him, she decided to get an afghan from upstairs and cover him. It was nearly 6pm, but there was still work to be done. For him, though, his day was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Whew, I bet Robert’s really glad that day is finally over.
> 
> Things to consider for next chapter and beyond:
> 
> \- What do you think Comstock has planned from his encounter with the tear? A hint: It ties in with one of Lady Comstock’s voxophones.


	8. De futuro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert has the chance to observe Rosalind in roles that he cannot help her with.

 

 

** Chapter 8-De futuro  **

_“About the future”_

 

* * *

**December 14, 1894, Friday**

 

By appearance they seemed three colleagues discussing their shared metier; two senior and one hoping to gain their favor. Robert felt it quite the opposite in the drawing room that morning. Two waited for the approval of one.

True to his word, they had granted the young chemist his formal presentation directly to them following the results of his compound yesterday. He had looked over the literature and was very pleased with the results. Now all that remained was Rosalind’s review—and as she was head of the department, it was her approval that was needed. She did not make idle chatter, did not ask who his father was, how his mother faired in this weather, indeed, or even what his daily duties were at the Science Authority.

The situation created strong imagery for him.  He was reminded, without his control, of his youth.

She was like a governess, with severe dress and uplifted brow, and they like two boys, nervous for the switch for not completing their letters. Her eyes automatically began scanning down the pages, reading carefully and studying every line, and Leander sat forward, hands nearly gripping his knees in anticipation.

Robert turned to offer a reassuring smile to him, but he was so attentive to Rosalind’s every action. His tea remained untouched—perhaps he preferred coffee?—and Robert too, had all but forgotten the teacup suspended between the saucer and his lips.

She worked methodically, stopping in places to verify calculations, never once looking at either man. She flipped to the next page, repeating the careful process. Her silence, her reserved authority, was both unnerving and titillating. Yes, it was a much different feeling than his later school days, Headmaster hovering above his shoulder, ensuring each row of Georgics was written. He had never had a woman reign over him since his governess, and he had quickly surpassed her early on. For the next one to be Rosalind, who surpassed every man he had ever known both in life and in writing, well…

“So, an ethylene glycol solvent into the current sodium chloride solution to further depress the freezing point?” she started.

“Yes, ma’am,” Leander answered immediately. “With an unprecedented--”

Rosalind glanced up from the papers and he paused, unsure if he was allowed to speak beyond a yes or no. “Ah, I’m sorry,” he blurted, perhaps afraid he had spoiled his chances by speaking out of turn.

Robert thought he might have seen the corner of her mouth quirk, but it could have been a trick of the firelight. She inclined her head, an impassive expression about her face. “Continue.”

With a nod, Leander sat up straighter. “Yes, with an unprecedented resistance to subfreezing temperatures. A sixty percent glycol and forty percent water will freeze at minus forty-nine Fahrenheit.”

“I’m not too familiar with this compound used for this purpose. What is its original freezing point in its pure form?”

“About ten Fahrenheit, ma’am.”

“Interesting,” she mused. She put the presentation down in her lap and folded her hands over it. “Now, for obvious reasons, you have omitted in writing what brought you to pursue this experiment in the first place, but I’m interested. The state of the city reactors does not usually fall within your department division.”

Robert looked solely to Leander now, interested as well. His new solution had come at the right moment, truly it was a blessing, but he was curious. Leander was young, quite possibly the youngest in the Chemistry department, if his memory served him best. Why had it been him and not more tenured gentlemen to not only identify the problem, but take the initiative to find a solution? For Newton it was an apple, for Rosalind, a dream.

“Well, to put it simply, Madame, I saw you and Mr. Lutece struggling with the reactors. I thought I could help.”

He gave a small smile, but a number of emotions crossed his sharp features before he continued carefully.  “Madame Lutece,” he started, searching his shoes before meeting her eyes, “I…have not been in a place quite like this. And to work under extraordinary talents such as yourself and Mr. Lutece is truly inspiring. I may be but a chemist with no business in your work, but that does not mean mine cannot be used for yours.”

“You flatter us, Mr. Sinclair.” She smiled tightly, as if she was not accustomed to such praise. “But I think you do yourself a disservice to dismiss your work and innovation. Your formula will put many minds at ease, particularly ours.”

Leander focused intently on her, face narrowed in concentration. Without that usual open enthusiasm he displayed, it could have been the face of his mythical namesake, determined to swim the Hellespont. It was a far cry from his wide-eyed intake of their home earlier. He paid no mind to the coils beside his chair or the generator behind him.

“What impresses me most, beyond your work, is that you understand, perhaps better than some of our more _esteemed_ colleagues, the true purpose of the Authority. This collection of sciences is meant to encourage cooperation and produce greater results.”

Rosalind widened her smile. “Now,” she continued, “We are very pleased with your work, and we’d like to incorporate it immediately into city function. Robert has spoken very highly of the actual results and of your assistance-” She paused here and acknowledged him. “With that, we are constructing a seasonal team that will be responsible for preparing and monitoring the city reactors during the winter. As you may have witnessed, it is particularly busy. We are offering you a position on this team with full control over the specifics and monitoring of your new integrated compound. This will be on top of your normal responsibilities with the Authority. You will report directly to us. Would you be willing to take on this post?”

She spoke quickly, concisely, without embellishment, and as she gave her conditions, the eagerness returned to the chemist’s face in the form of a wide grin.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, slender fingers gripping the armrest of his chair to keep him from springing up from it. “I would be honored to take on the responsibility.”

With a wave of her hand she soothed him into a more agreeable state.

“In addition, a modest sum of funding and resources will be made available to you should you wish to pursue further studies for the project.”

Their guest sat back in his chair now, fully affected by the sudden endowments extended to him. He took his tea haphazardly from the table beside him and took a large gulp, containing his surprise when he realized he had not put any sugar in it.

“Oh,” he sputtered. “Forgive me,” he said, retrieving his handkerchief, dabbing at his chin and waistcoat. “I’ll be frank and tell you that I was not expecting anything like this when I prepared for this meeting.”

“Yes, I suspect you weren’t,” Rosalind said distantly, and Robert thought briefly about why that was so.

Leander was well enough into his career to understand the unspoken requirements of garnering grants and what hindered him from it; his age, his chosen field, his unconventional ideas. Only a few years separated them, and Robert understood it all too well. The only person to uplift him had been himself.

“You’ll find we don’t fall within normal expectations, especially Rosalind,” he said, grinning.

She seemed uncomfortable with the statement and gave him a frown.

“My apologies, Madame. I shall not make the mistake again.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Sinclair,” Rosalind smiled again. “We’re just about finished here. Do you have any questions for us?”

With his mouth hung open, Leander looked like he had a plethora of questions, but he asked only, “When will the team start work?”

“Immediately. I will discuss the details of the team and introduce them at our division’s meeting in a few hours. You’ll meet afterwards. Tomorrow is the weekend, but you understand firsthand how urgent the matter is,” she implied.

“Of course. I look forward to working with you and the other members.” Truly he exuded an intensity that spoke of his enthusiasm.

“So do we,” she said and stood, prompting the men to do so as well. She extended her hand to Leander. “Mr. Sinclair, it has been a pleasure.”

“Yes, it has,” he beamed, shaking both their hands.

“We’ll see you later this afternoon,” Robert said, walking him to the foyer. “You have a good day, Mr. Sinclair.”

Leander nodded. “I shall. You and Madame Lutece as well.” On his way out, he tipped his hat to Gwen and gave a different smile altogether. “A pleasure seeing you again, Miss Gwendolyn.”

Robert stood behind her, and though he couldn’t see her face, he could hear a certain interest in her response that he had not heard before with their other guests.

“Remember, the department meeting is at 1pm,” he said after Leander left. “You have the rest of the day free after that.”

“Of course,” she nodded.

“Good. I thought it best to remind you, since last week was atypical. I doubt we’ll be getting as much notices this afternoon as the rest of the week.” The temperature this morning was notably higher than before, allowing him to rest easier. There were still fluctuations with reactors coming in to them, but at least the influx and the urgency had lightened to the point of attempting to return to a schedule that resembled normalcy. “If you need anything, Rosalind and I will be in the main room.”

He left her to return back to Rosalind, who was still engaged in the drawing room, eyes poring over Leander’s work. The rate at which she absorbed information was extraordinary, even better than his at times—and he need only look over something once thoroughly to recall it—but he understood that her action was the beginning of her unacknowledged habit that started on Friday mornings.

She was not _nervous_ for these weekly meetings; nervous would imply that she had no control over the situation, and he had never seen anyone wield as much control as she in an academia setting, but she became very critical of herself in those hours leading to it. She triple-checked her work, became almost irrational with her meticulousness. Her attire was at its most severe, often times, matching his, and for the briefest of windows, she was at her most frigid of temperaments.

The transformation was most jarring in his early days, and still, he looked upon these Friday mornings as a form of separation between them. The most obvious fact of it was that she held a position—two in fact—as head of the Physics division and of the higher Physical Sciences department. Try as she might to lobby and insist that he held it too without revealing their true nature, he was subordinate to her. And it was his insistence that raising him to her would be detrimental. Whispers of nepotism were the least of his concerns. He sat on a fine line of contentment and joy when he was in that lecture hall, brushing shoulders with the brightest gentlemen scientists, all surpassed by a woman more clever and brilliant than they. He might stand up and proclaim it all if only to see her brow unknit and gaze warm. Her cold piercing stare, so quick to find him and anchor him to his seat, was enough to wash those idyllic thoughts and prose from him completely.

Robert knew it best to just leave her be in these hours, although he was immensely curious of her thoughts on Leander. Gathering their used teacups and saucers, he asked quietly, “What’s your opinion of him?”

The sound of papers lowering caught his attention, and he glanced up to see her stare at him with that same expression that had caused Leander to falter.

“Already?” she drawled.

He shrugged, all he could do in that intensity.

She clucked her tongue, looking wearily at the papers again. “His mathematics are impeccable, as is his grammar. Very formal.”

Rosalind glanced at him again, knowing she had not given him the answer he wanted. “He’s very… _eager_?” she tried, and she nodded. “Yes. He’s eager.” She thought a moment longer. “But he’s also very observant. A valuable trait.”

“He reminds me of myself. When I was younger,” he added quickly.

She perked an eyebrow, but she was still irascible. “Feeling nostalgic? At your ripe old age?”

It was almost a jeer, her tone bordering mockery.

“Hardly,” he scoffed. It was unwise to attempt speaking to her in this condition, especially about his time before crossing over, but he felt strongly about what they were doing with Leander. They had the opportunity to propel his career.

“Does this have anything to do with your eagerness to use his compound?”

“ _No,_ ” he clarified. “You have his work in your hands, seen the results. I’d have approved of his method even if Fink presented it to me.”

She gave him a look, though this time her expression softened slightly into a more pleasing one, that she thought the idea preposterous.

“ _You know what I mean,_ ” Robert muttered. “I’d be mildly suspicious, naturally, but regardless, I’d still use it if it meant greater efficiency. And we know Fink approves of _that_ if nothing else.”

“True.”

She fell silent, going back to her preparations. Robert lifted the tray and started his way to the kitchen.

“I—er…What do you think about all this?” she said suddenly.

He halted. “About?”

“About giving this all to Leander. So quickly. It’s very unorthodox.”

“Well,” he started, placing the tray down, “There may be some wounded pride, perhaps even rumors that you play favorites.”

Rosalind looked annoyed, but no longer with him. “I don’t see why. It shows that hard work, ingenuity, and cooperation are rewarded. Not age or career length. Or names,” she added derisively.

 _Or gender_ , Robert finished in his mind. “It could also mean we become inundated with every idea, good or bad.”

“And when we turn them down, what then?” she posed. “More wound-licking, but better ideas. And _eagerness_.”

He considered it a moment, not particularly fond of what was to come. “It will be a while until those results show, but yes.”

He picked up the tray once more, intent on letting her be undisturbed, as he usually found worked best, but she called to him, “Um, could you perhaps look through these and make sure I’ve not made any errors?”

Looking at her face suddenly, he saw her ferocity tamed and replaced with a slight vexing concern. She had never directly asked for his help in her meeting preparations before.

Robert smiled gently. “Of course.”

* * *

 

She always began with a simple ‘ _Good afternoon, Gentlemen’,_ never louder than normal speaking volume.

The clamor of formalities exchanging ceased immediately, and there was the shuffling of men in their seats, of sporadic sniffs and coughs, exaggerated by the weather this time of year.

“Good afternoon, Madame,” they chorused.

Taking a place in the front row, the farthest seat on the right, Robert wondered if it was always like this in the beginning, this immediate obedience. Had they been cold, uninviting? Had she done some strong-arm demonstration to establish her dominance? Of course, this was not university or some dissertation review. She had reviewed _them_ , before the city had even risen. They had no choice but to accept her as their superior, and she was a fine one at that.

Perhaps it was that etiquette trumped pride. No man dared forget their manners in front of a lady, not in open view of his peers. The thought prompted another one, one he hadn’t thought before: had his presence affected their behavior in anyway? He might never know the answer as he’d never bring it up with her, casually or otherwise, and sifting through her memories was not an option either. Best not to have an incident here, then she’d have _real_ reason to direct her ire at him. The issue was not important, anyway. This was quite a charming group of men. Perhaps Rosalind’s mood was affecting him.

Attentions focused, she skipped the pleasantries, beyond acknowledging Dr. Pelletier, Science Authority Director and Head of Health and Human Services Department, who was sitting in today. She broke her stony facade momentarily to give the older gentleman a genial smile; she thought very highly of him, and so did he. Or was that Rosalind's memory influencing his again?

Robert rubbed at his temple, banishing his weariness and any thoughts born of it that could incite another episode. He was immensely glad they were transferring the bulk of the reactor upkeep onto a group of individuals and not just he and Rosalind. He didn't think he could handle the weight of it much longer.

She began with the usual point of order; review of last week’s details, an outline of today's. He knew much of it already. She offered the floor to Mr. Isaman and Mr. Gardner to speak on their respective department divisions. Mr. Isaman, balding crown reflecting the sun that shone through the glass roof, spoke only of the Chemistry division’s need for replacement bulbs for their spectroscopes.  Mr. Gardner reported that the Mathematics division was doing well, no issues at the moment, or at least that was what Robert thought he said. Sometimes it was difficult to understand the man’s harsh staccato no matter if he spoke slowly. German was not his best or favorite language.

Rosalind thanked their colleagues and spoke now of the Physics division, which itself did not have any pertinent issues that needed to be addressed on the agenda. Their labs, though independent, fell under the umbrella of the authority whenever the city was involved, and so she spoke of the current issue with the reactors. It was a continuing discussion for the past few weeks, increasing in length each meeting as the winter presented itself.

Since he already knew what she was to say about the matter-- _God knows he lived it_ \--he turned his head casually to survey the sea of gentlemen. They leaned forward in their chairs, eager to hear the latest, even those who had not been affected by it in the slightest. He suspected it was an underlying primal fear of falling. A city in the sky was only good if it stayed afloat, and men slept soundly if they knew it did.

"I'm very pleased that one of our colleagues has developed a deicing compound able to handle the extreme temperatures that affect us at this altitude," she revealed.

Heads angled and a low buzz of whispers started as they tried to determine who among them had the honor of pleasing Madame Lutece. She seemed to know it too, because there was a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips when she said, "Mr. Sinclair, would you care to elucidate us briefly on your compound?"

All eyes fixed on Leander in the fourth row, and he sprang up from his chair. "Certainly." He smoothed his jacket, buttoning up as he came to the front of the room. “Thank-you, Ma’am.”

As he began to share his work, Robert examined him more fully. He was much more confident now that his father and brother were absent, although with his serious expression and posture, he was stricken with how much he now resembled them beyond the biological. Interesting how that was, how people assumed the habits of those around them, especially since it was usually without conscious thought.

And he glanced at Rosalind again, without _his_ conscious thought, he found. Who had she developed habits from? There were many they shared. The both of them tilted their head when they stared at the chalkboard, or shuffled a pen across the desk to convince themselves they weren’t idle. But according to Rosalind, _he_ only ran his hand over his chin in deep thought like Father, or scratched at the place where his jaw met his neck. That may be the case, but _she_ only hovered like Mother and scowled like Father until she got what she wanted. She used them in conjunction to create an entirely new mannerism that was solely her own. His father and mother never commanded such presence like she did.

As she rose again to speak once more and address the learned men, she looked to him like a red-haired monarch of old England from the pages of his schoolboy lessons, poised, yet defiant to let tradition dictate her life.

 “So in the wake of Mr. Sinclair’s compound, we will go ahead with implementing a seasonal team to handle the reactors…”

“Good, good.” Beside him, Edward Carlyle muttered his enthusiasm, no doubt the reason being he had only seen him Tuesday for a reactor. A simple man in the Mathematics division, Robert knew him professionally and remembered him easily because he and the four other mathematicians in the seats down the row were the smallest of their department.

“…This team will report directly to myself, and will be responsible for several duties. I’ve discussed it already in passing with those of you that have expressed interest in a position on it and with Mr. Isaman and Gardner to finalize the selection. Now--” She paused. “ _Yes?_ ” Rosalind dared the person who chose to interrupt her with a raised hand to speak. She made it abundantly clear that questions would be answered at the end of meetings to spare everyone from being relayed information twice.

Robert couldn’t see who it was exactly from his angle, but a voice, with a tone dangerously close to implying something, spoke.

“Has the compound already been tested? It seems so quick between this week and the last that something is ready for use without proper time for development and testing. Authority standard of operations states that--”

“— _That_ ,” she cut him off, and several men, stunned, snapped their eyes to her, “All new developments must first be presented formally with proper documentation and preliminary tests before approval by at least one division head and Head of Department. Yes, we are all well-versed on standard procedure here, Mr. Whitman,” she said coldly.

She gave him a withering glance, and even from the front row, Robert could see the man visibly shrink in his chair. Rosalind let the stunned silence hang for a bit. There was an expression of hardness and dominance about her face, and it secretly delighted him like earlier; how a single look from her had reduced a man to humiliated silence.

“Gentlemen,” she said. “Please raise your hands if you have been directly or indirectly affected by the weather’s effect on the reactors; if you have spent a sleepless night as your residence sunk several feet below benchmark.”

Over half, quite possibly three-fourths of the men in the lecture hall raised their hands. Whitman, who did not raise his, sunk lower in his chair.

“Thank-you. You may put your hands down.” Looking at her challenger once again, she continued. “In answer to your question, Mr. Whitman, yes. Mr. Sinclair’s compound has been tested in the freezing early hours of the morning. As you’ve just witnessed, the urgency and need of such a solution is palpable. And as I’ve just explained _before_ you interrupted, both Mr. Isaman and Mr. Gardner as division heads have given their approval, as have I. It is a bit unorthodox in the manner of its exposition, but the appropriate steps were still taken to ensure the best interests of the city. I apologize that this bothers you so much, but when _you_ present a viable solution to any problem to the Authority, we’ll make sure that it follows _standard procedure,_ ” she added. “Are there any more questions?”

A hush had overcome the lecture hall and not even a cough or sniff broke the heavy silence. He couldn’t speak for the other men in the room, but his silence was one of admiration. He had never seen her this volatile, this fierce. He yearned, in the deepest part of him, to see her at the beginning of her career, when she fought the hardest. Her fury was not unbridled. Pure, honed, polished, swift; it was like Father’s prized rapier, precious and powerful once its skill was displayed. Robert wasn’t sure what had overcome him so suddenly to think these things.

“Now,” Rosalind said again, as if she had not been interrupted, “The team will consist of six people, two from each division. If you’ve been chosen, please have a seat in the front row after I’ve dismissed everyone. For the rest of us, there will be no department meeting next week in lieu for the Authority Christmas luncheon and the start of the holiday. Our next meeting will be on the 28th. Thank-you very much for your attention. You are dismissed.”

When she was finished, everyone stood up and began their usual chatter. There was a manner of excitement now than prior to the meeting. Men spoke about the team, about the return to normal routines, and of the upcoming holiday. Robert stayed in his chair for the new team members while Rosalind fielded any private questions. Carlyle was one of the chosen, and he turned excitedly in his seat towards him.

“Were you part of the decision process, Mr. Lutece?”

He adjusted himself in his seat to face him. “Yes, I was.”

Carlyle smiled. “Thank-you very much for considering me. I expressed my interest, but didn’t think I’d be chosen.”

Robert leaned in, grinning. “Actually, I was the one to finalize your selection,” he revealed. “Your work on the spatial anomaly a few months ago was very dynamic and adaptive. We’ll be needing much of that for the project.”

“I’m- thank-you!” Carlyle said, nearly flustered by the comment. Robert thought he shouldn’t be. After all, the man’s work was impressive. Why shouldn’t he be chosen?

“You have only yourself to thank, Edward. Rosalind and I are only recognizing your hard work.”

Indeed, they were. This was probably an external influence of the citizens once again, but he thought there was no better place for he and Rosalind to revolutionize the field of science. So much was new and ripe for redirection, but it was still apparent by Leander and Carlyle’s reactions that much work had to be done for that to occur.

In the seat next to Carlyle, Marcus Spencer, the other mathematician chosen for the team, sat quietly, but listened to their conversation.

“Spencer!” Robert called out, if only to prevent Carlyle from thanking him again. Not that he was displeased, but people thanked him far more than necessary for the most logical of things. “Good to have you, man. I was telling Carlyle about the significance of Authority work being a factor in the decision process. Your rigorous reworking of Dirichlet’s diagrams and proofs are what we considered, as was your ability to spot the flaws in them. We cannot afford any mistakes where the city is concerned.” He offered both of them his hand. “I hope I’m not stealing Rosalind’s introduction, but I am looking forward to working with the both of you.”

He glanced at Rosalind to see if she was ready to start with the team. She was conversing with Dr. Pelletier, but she caught his eye and smiled for the first time at him that morning. They talked for a few moments more, and she finally made her way over. Her icy demeanor was beginning to thaw, he noticed. It put him in a better mood, and it was also an invitation to join her side once more. He stood up to speak with them.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted the smaller group. Besides Carlyle and Spencer from Mathematics, there was Leander and George Peterson from Chemistry, and Ashley Eames and Claude Warren from their own Physics; many young faces stared back. Warren and Spencer were the most senior, in their thirties with their own families. Hopefully, that wouldn’t divide them too much. “The six of you have been chosen because we think you are the best choices for this important project. I don’t need to reiterate the priority of this for the city.”

“We believe you can not only handle the extra work, but produce the best results,” Robert said. “We will be candid-”

“-There will be long nights and early mornings. If you believe you cannot handle the demands-”

“-Feel free to come to us-”

“-There is no shame in admitting this job will be too much-”

“-Because it _will_ be demanding.”

They paused and looked at each team member, allowing them time to speak, but it looked more that they were a bit taken aback by their speech pattern than of the information.

“Good,” Rosalind said, the corner of her mouth perking. “I suspected as much.”

Robert opened the folio he was carrying and distributed a document packet to each of them.

“Today is mostly for us to get acquainted. There is no work to begin at this moment to allow you to finish your remaining duties for the week.”

“If you’ll take a look over these packets tonight, we can begin preliminary work tomorrow afternoon right back here. Is that arrangement sufficient for everyone?”

Whether it was or not, Robert was fairly certain no one was going to object. They all gave their confirmation.

“Well, then,” she bowed her head. “I wish you all a very pleasant rest of the day.”

Their new team gathered their things and made sure to thank both of them before they left, conversing animatedly between themselves in the way challenging work usually created. It left him in high spirits that they had made the best decision selecting these people. Apparently so did Rosalind. She watched them for a moment and smiled at him in the empty lecture hall.

“Shall we get some lunch?” she asked.

Robert presented her his arm, a growing grin on his face. “Let’s.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: 
> 
> Whew. Thanks for being patient everyone as I worked out this chapter. This is the longest one so far and the most difficult for me to write.  
> Thinking ahead:
> 
> -With Robert and Rosalind’s new positions in Columbia, do you think they’ll be able to impact the science community in ways that they’ve always wanted to?
> 
> \- And with the issue of the reactors mostly solved, they can return their attention back to other things, like infusions, and the Christmas party! Hrrmm. Shopping seems to fit in there as well.


	9. Absit Omen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over lunch and a visit to the tailor's, Rosalind has a slew of oddities to navigate through.

 

** Chapter 9- Absit Omen **

_“Let an omen be absent.”_

 

* * *

 

“You’re not eating.”

“Hrmm?” Robert blinked as if rousing from a stupor, frowning. “I am.”

Rosalind cut delicately into her rhubarb pie slice. “No, you’ve been _watching_ me eat,” she said, the warm piece of pie sliding into her mouth. With a napkin, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth delicately. “Or, perhaps, just watching _me_.”

Looking guiltily at his rarebit, he shuffled a few cut portions around the plate before putting one disinterestedly into his mouth.

“Is your meal underdone?” Her meal was fine—good, actually—but she didn’t want him to suffer in silence as she enjoyed hers.

“No, no, it’s fine. The cheese is a bit overcooked for my preference, but it’s still enjoyable.” He twirled some on his fork for good measure, but didn’t eat it.

So it was something else then. She finished another bite before continuing, “Is your appetite affected by my behavior towards Whitman?”

His eyes snapped to her. _Ah, so it was._

“A bit,” he confessed.

She looked down at her food, so he might not see her disappointment now. Of the fifty men in the lecture hall, she believed he would be the one to understand her the most.

“Of course,” Rosalind tried not to say too bitterly. She prodded her pie; it was too tarty.

Robert set his utensil down and grasped her hand as it lay on the table. She looked at the contact, considering whether to pull away from it.

“Not in the way you think.”

She looked at him then to hear his explanation.

“I…quite liked your handling of it, actually,” he admitted, returning his hand to his side of the table and buttoning up his jacket.

She felt the corner of her lips tug upwards slightly. In truth, she felt exhausted from these meetings, and Robert was her nurse to remedy the mental exertions of them.

“I do hope you mean you agree with the necessity of it, and not of seeing a man flayed in front of his peers for saying aloud what they were thinking.”

“Oh yes, necessary,” he agreed. “It was insolence in the guise of a question, but I think you misjudge most of the men to believe they are all like Whitman.”

After taking another bite as he spoke, she dabbed again a bit of filling that had caught on the corner of her mouth. “I know. His ire was aimed more at Mr. Sinclair. It does not escape my notice that they are both close in age and in similar position at the Authority.” She smirked. “ _Were_ in the same position.”

Robert remained solemn.

“But,” she sobered at his expression, “I suppose he was only ensuring fair play remained in the system, as you predicted would happen.” This didn’t seem to alter his mood—it seemed to aggravate him, in fact, as if he thought her sympathy should not be wasted on Whitman.

“He should have come to you in private,” he muttered.

“He should have,” she said, reaching across to brush her fingers over his hand. He considered the contact now, his expression lightening; hers as well. “But enough of that,” she dismissed, pulling away. “We have the whole afternoon, you and I. Did you have a shop in mind for your clothes?”

He shrugged. “Hudson’s?”

She smiled into her tea as she drank it. It was the first place she had gone to for clothes for him, and later, when he was in condition to travel outside of their home, the first place she had taken him for proper fitting. He lacked any sort of formal attire fit for the Christmas Ball’s white tie dress code. At the time, full evening dress was the least of their concern when they had a whole wardrobe’s worth to purchase for him upon his arrival. Together with the amount of clothes he soiled with his hemorrhaging, yes, parties or any sort of public engagement were the farthest from her mind. But now, normalcy was setting in, and the new rhythm of their lives was making itself known. If that included a greater social life because Robert wanted it, so be it.

“Hudson’s is good.”

She focused on cutting a piece of her pie again which he must have mistaken for her disinterest because he added, “We can go to the shops you like as well.”

“I think we’ll find everything we need at Hudson’s. They have an excellent selection.” Quite a few items caught her eye when they visited there last.

Robert nodded, nudging his plate farther from him slightly. Rosalind frowned at the bulk of his meal. “Are you done?”

“With the rarebit, yes.”

“You didn’t order any dessert. If you’re in the mood for something else-”

He waved his hand. “It’s fine. They’re preparing to close for dinner soon.”

Perhaps he had a better angle of the kitchen than she did from their position near the window, but she could see the waitstaff was still attentive to the remaining guests in the restaurant. If she asked, they would not refuse her. Not _Madame Lutece_. They went out of their way to keep her content, to keep her coming back to their establishment. Really though, she had simple, albeit, strict requests that fell within reason. They were to have the most secluded table that was available, and their preference for the restaurant was not to be advertised. She made no other demands or ridiculous accommodations. A piece of pie or dessert for her brother if they could help it, was not asking too much. She might even throw in a compliment about her own meal to accompany the request.

Rosalind knew Robert would be modest if she asked. Though why should he be? It was already a year. Her fame lost its glimmer to her in about the same span. She made it very clear that the recognition was as much his as it was hers, and he was free to use it as such, especially before it waned in his eyes as well.

“We can share mine,” she told him matter-of-factly, and before he could object, she offered him her fork with a generous portion of pie. The presentation of the dessert was that she’d feed him the morsel if he leaned forward and opened his mouth. He did so eagerly before hesitating and glanced around at the nearly empty restaurant. She surveyed their audience as well, because people always stared; the reason they took to late lunches and early dinners. As the Great Madame, with interested eyes, the public watched her closely; watched Robert. Their scrutiny was tolerable most times, but eating? Shopping? Her privacy was no longer sacred, it seemed. She thought briefly of the continent and if they had lived there. Would she have used her funds to rebuy her family home or an estate of her own? Might she have picnic in the privacy of her garden? Just the two of them, laughing, conversing as they shared sandwiches over elderflower cordial. Perhaps in one universe, they had.

She raised an eyebrow at him. They were going to stare whether they sat idly or ate a meal with the worst of table manners. He made his decision, placing his hand over hers to guide the fork into his mouth. He chewed it for a few seconds, giving her a muffled sound of approval at the taste. Cheeks puffed, red filling caught at the end of his smirk, he looked like a schoolboy again. The sight could have made her laugh, and she almost did. She smirked, and he, with a dangerously crooked smile, snorted despite himself.

“Shh,” she warned. What had overcome them, suddenly, she did not know. Reaching across the table again, she bunched a napkin to clear the offending jelly from his mouth. If someone thought the action inappropriate, she could care less. She was within her bounds to make certain her kin, as it were, remained presentable in public. Despite her harsh tone, there was still a quirk about his mouth, one that threatened to put her back into a state that was sure to turn a head or two, and she made an effort now to concentrate anywhere but his face.

Robert used his own spoon, and they sobered over the remaining pie, finishing it in silence, the fit of near-laughter gone. Rosalind wondered perhaps, if this was what true siblings experienced. Pantomime when their governess’ back was turned, silly expressions in church when Father wasn’t looking, or stuffing tarts cooling on the counter into their mouth before Mother told them they were for after supper. Was this all they had missed? What else? Playing doctor, playing house?

Well, she supposed, keeping her attention carefully on the dessert, they had had a similar experience—as one could expect upon meeting and caring for the opposing gender of oneself. But that had been necessary and hardly puerile in nature. They had not sat and matched their physical similarities shoulder to shoulder, or their differences chest to chest. The knowledge of it was apparent. She did not need to see the appendage between his legs or lift her skirts to know she lacked one, but that also did not mean she thought the biological distinctions were any less significant or interesting. Even now, as his tongue rolled over his lips, staining them scarlet with pie filling, she thought of the length of it. Was it longer than hers? Or how his jaw ticked to the slow rhythm of his chewing, and she thought of the wonderful development of the other muscles on his body that were more prominent than hers--

“Is something the matter?”

Rosalind snapped her head up to find him mildly concerned. “Pardon?”

“You’ve had an odd expression for some time.”

 She made her face as impassive as she could, despite that she could feel her ears burning. Hopefully, her position on the dimmer side of the table made it difficult to discern. She brought her cup to her lips. “Have I?” she murmured over her tea before sipping. How long had she been seized by her thoughts?

He shrugged lightly, inclining his head to show it was just his opinion.

“I was thinking of…what I might wear,” she lied, feigning interest in the concentric stains of her tea on the saucer. It’s been some time since I’ve attended a ball for my own pleasure.” Partially a truth. She did not like to keep anything from him, but the topic of their _physical properties_ was best not discussed over lunch in a public restaurant. 

“I’m sure whatever you decide to wear will be lovely. I liked what you wore for our portraits.” He ended his compliment with an easy smile.

“Yes,” she agreed with a slight smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. but that was decidedly _academic,”_ she dismissed and peered out the window thoughtfully. “I’m not sure many people will approve of _that_ for the Christmas season. They want festive, extravagant-”

“- _They_ will not get to choose your dress,” he interrupted, drawing her attention again. “ _You_ will.” His smile grew.

Swift as they were correcting people—and they _were_ quick about it—they found difficulty in improving their opinion of someone once the error was made. And if someone corrected _her_? The offense was two-fold. Often it was a man, a man who thought he knew what she should know, but Robert was not just _a_ man. He was her equal, and anything that put them out of balance, he made sure to correct. No one else _could_ correct her except him.

He shifted under her gaze, breaking it with a sip of his tea. “Are you finished with lunch?”

Rosalind blinked and smiled. “Yes,” she answered, letting him come around the table and help her with her chair, of which only he had the honor.

Putting her gloves back on, she expected the weight of her coat to be placed upon her shoulders but it never came. She looked at him in slight confusion. “Where is my coat?”

He was a reflection of her confusion. “You declined it before we left for the meeting.”

“Did I?” She didn’t recall that in the slightest. Gloves on, she examined each leather wrapped finger. Just as well. She dressed warmly this afternoon, and the weather was slightly tolerable than past days, if a bit chilly in the shade. As long as they returned home before nightfall, she was fine. Taking Robert’s arm, they left Cafe New Eden.

 

* * *

 

Hudson’s had many stores throughout the city, but they preferred the one at the end of the street in Market District, just before it turned into the Financial Quarter. The greatest convenience was its proximity, but that Mr. Hudson knew their measurements from memory also encouraged their return. A slight man, whose thin frame was exaggerated by his exactingly fit attire, Mr. Hudson was in the back of the shop attending to two women, discussing what Rosalind could only assume was about the material of the dresses they were dramatically comparing. Her lips pursed. Hopefully, they’d be out of here by the time she would be doing the same. She did not think she could tolerate their mindless chatter or dull interest in her fame. Mr. Hudson’s nephew, William Able, greeted them instead.

“Mr. and Madame Lutece!” he said, abandoning his redressing of the mannequins in the right shop window. “How may I help you today? Something for you, Sir? Or the Lady?”

“For the both of us. Something for the Christmas Ball,” she answered.

The mention of their name was enough to draw everyone’s attention, and Mr. Hudson called to his nephew. “William, would you please assist these ladies? They’re finalizing their fabrics as we speak.” He turned back to the women. “Not to worry, William’s expertise is as good as mine, if not better.”

William gave a bob of leave to excuse himself, and Mr. Hudson took his place.

“Sir, Madame,” he smiled. “What did you have in mind?”

Robert looked to her, as he did the first time they were here, and she gestured for him to go first. “I should say that fitting you for a suit would take less time than I would choosing a dress.”

Mr. Hudson nodded. “She is right, Mr. Lutece. In my experience, a Lady appreciates her time when preparing for a ball.”

“Well,” he started. “If you recall, last time we decided to forego proper formal attire in lieu of more necessary outfits.”

“Yes, indeed. Dreadful business. I’ve just remember your predicament last year. Losing all your wardrobe.” He shuddered. “If you’ll follow me this way.” Mr. Hudson directed them to the men’s fitting area.

Rosalind followed the men in silent amusement. Although the tailor thought Robert’s false predicament of losing his entire wardrobe last year in an accident unfortunate—and that was they story they had fabricated—the man was absolutely ecstatic that Robert’s replacement was entirely under the Hudson Brand. He seemed positively joyous this afternoon that they had returned for his attire for the Ball, something she was quickly learning was the premiere event of the year. He offered her a chair and she watched him work.

He was quick, his skill more precise as he recognized his own handiwork in the seams and cuts of Robert’s suit. He circled him, eyes measuring.

“Have you noticed any areas that are tighter or shorter? Around the waist, at the shoulders, wrists, ankles?”

Robert shook his head. “No, it all fits perfectly.”

“Good,” Mr. Hudson said. He began with physical measurements to make certain; around the deepest part of his chest, the widest of his waist, the hollow of his back. “Let me know if it has become shorter. I had a nice young gentleman, twenty or so, who had not finished his boyhood growth spurts. Not wholly uncommon, but it was a surprise when he returned a week later. Normally I can make adjustments if I’m aware of age and growth habits. Hold out your arms for me, please. Thank-you.”

Robert caught her reflection in the trio of mirrors and grinned at his ridiculous posture. She found herself sporting a small grin as well, despite how positively mundane it was. From a shelf of material in various states of development, Mr. Hudson gathered garments and had him wear them. Robert emerged from the dressing room, and he continued his measuring, pinning the excess to fit him better.

“Quarter of an inch off the sleeves,” he and Robert agreed. “Madame, I’d hate for you to be waiting,” he started, pausing to look up at her. “I shouldn’t like to bore you with the mundane. You are most welcome to peruse the dresses if you wish.” He craned his neck to see around the corner to the women’s side. “William will be able to assist you should you need it.”

She made to say that she was perfectly content observing Robert, but it occurred to her that doing so would appear odd. Wives did not watch their husbands get fitted, neither did sisters for their brothers, especially when given the option to shop for themselves. And wasn’t she for efficiency? She was not bound to the clock as Fink was, but if their shopping could be accomplished quicker, she was not against it.

“I shall.”

In the fleeting glance she dared to toss at the mirror before she turned her back, she caught Robert’s expression, a very plain, wanting face, that conveyed his desire for her to remain, but lacked any rational reason for her to do so. Or perhaps, that was what she wanted to believe. Pushing the thought aside, she looked to the opposite side of the shop at the lively selections of outfits that stood in stark contrast to the suits.

Rosalind did not ignore the fact that she actually was, for lack of a more encompassing word, _excited_. _Girls_ got excited. _Young women_ on dates with suitors got excited. She was neither, that much was apparent, but the self-awareness that she had not let herself remain either one for too long made her consider if it was a factor to what she felt now.

Her past was filled with parties—each was the same for a young woman, and each she did not look forward to more than the previous. The true purpose of a party for a member of her sex was to find a suitor. Meeting friends, celebrating the holiday, it was all pretense. When she had broken herself out of that pretense, she had to dredge though another. Congressmen and Cabinet members became her new suitors. Her dresses had been plain, then, as plain and severe as their suits. In Columbia, there was no one she had to impress; no one she had to convince. She could wear whatever she pleased. Opinions and money no longer limited her, and that was the source of her excitement.

She approached a dress that caught her attention. The cut was simple enough, it was sleeveless—how she hated the _gigot_ cut that was immensely popular—which meant she would have to wear her thickest coat when outdoors. Train length was moderate, she did not have to fret being underfoot guests, and she did enjoy the color; a subtle arrangement of peach and baby’s breath, accented by olive velvet and floral patterning. Overall, it was very traditional, in the sense that it was neither too contemporary or reflective of fashions past. Perhaps that was what held her from really appreciating the dress. If she blended in too much amongst the crowd, well then, was she really worthy of her title as the greatest Columbian mind? Her lips pursed in annoyance.

She moved on to search for another. This was a tricky business, dress shopping. Too traditional, and she appeared unprogressive; too modern and she frightened them with the idea of change. Ridiculous. Mr. Able was not in sight. She glanced, begrudgingly, at the two ladies near her for a clue of the right fashion. They had left her to her business, too preoccupied with their own, or they might have not noticed she was even there.

It seems she could ignore them for only so long—the amount of information they revealed about their personal lives in normal conversation was nauseating, not that there was much she found interesting. What she learned about _‘Martha, and Ingrid, dear_ ,’ fit many of the young ladies she encountered in Emporia. They were young, older than her by a few years, and married perhaps around the time she decided to move to America. Martha was the kind of woman her mother would call “stout,” but Rosalind thought she might fall under the word “voluptuous.” Stout was more fitting for short bank managers and maiden aunts. Ingrid, with her high cheekbones and slender waist, would have been a “wanton thing,” driven to her unfavorable state by the inability to handle her children—the conclusion many might draw as they heard the conversation that filled this corner of the shop.

“--Ingrid, dear,” Martha said, playing at the chiffon hem of a yellow silk dress, “all he needs is some time in the Earnest Eagles. Thomas finally convinced me to put Billy in it at the start of summer. Why! He can hardly stop talking about how fine this city is.”

The dress she was considering was not a design that Rosalind liked. The large taffeta bow at the breast was something she pictured Aunt Freddie might wear on holiday.

“—I suppose so,” Ingrid replied. She went on to feel at the stitching of a chiffon bodice, contemplating her thoughts more than the material itself, because she spoke in a softer tone, “I do think this is just a phase. He sulks about, comparing his life back on the Mainland. He’s resorted to telling lies about the supernatural now. Ripples of light? Ghostly apparitions?”

Rosalind froze, listening carefully to her uncomfortable confession.

“Columbia _in flames?_ There’s only so much I can take of his behavior, Martha.”

“Precisely the reason you should put him in the Eagles. They instill a strict curriculum of Founder values and love for the city-”

“I beg your pardon, ladies, but I couldn’t help and overhear your, er, troubles. You say your son, experienced something?”

“Oh, Madame!” Martha exclaimed once she turned suddenly to see who had addressed them.

“Oh, it’s nothing that should concern you. Especially the silly imaginings of my son,” Ingrid dismissed, waving her hand about in a flourish.

“Humor me.”

She seemed taken aback by her brusqueness, but started, after a furtive glance at Martha. “Um, he mentioned he was playing at the park, Washington Park, near the large oak tree and he voices coming from behind it.”

“Just voices?”

Ingrid looked hesitant to answer. “No. He also saw the city on fire.”

“Was he the only one to witness it or were there other children about?” Rosalind pressed.

“There might have been? I did not question him about it. I assumed he was lying. This is not the first time he’s done so.” A flicker of guilt passed briefly on her thin face, as did skepticism on Martha’s. “Do you think he actually _was_ witness to something? An apparition perhaps?”

Rosalind might have shared the same look with the other woman if she was not worried about the possibility of a tear spontaneously opening in plain view of the public. She smiled, barely, to placate the mother.

“No, I do not. If he is not imagining, it might very well be a side effect of the altitude. Young children and the elderly are the most susceptible to a lack of oxygen that might generate hallucinations.”

“Hallucinations?”

“Temporary,” she clarified. Of course, no person liked to think their child was mentally ill. There was no established asylum in Columbia, after all. “Continued exposure to the outdoors should help to clear it.”

Ingrid visibly relaxed. “Good.”

“The Eagles, dear,” Martha rounded. “They spend a healthy amount of time outdoors helping our sons grow into robust and respectful men. It’s exactly the sort of thing Charles needs.”

“Yes. I do believe so. I’ll talk to Edward about it.”

While the ladies were preoccupied with themselves once more, Rosalind retreated to her thoughts, placing some distance between herself and them, lest they decide they wanted to engage her with idle chatter. And it would be idle. There was no more information to be gleaned; there was none she could convey, either, because if they did not question that the symptoms of altitude sickness appeared immediately after arrival to the city, not nearly two years later, then she was very certain there was nothing else they had in common other than occupying a shop with the same intent. She needed space to think.

A spontaneous tear? And hardly innocuous if the boy’s description is to be believed. Why would this one open unless it was intentional? The state of this other Columbia souded dire. Would another pair of themselves use the Contraption to escape it? There were so many variables, so many unknowns. She needed Robert. She glanced back at him. He seemed to be nearly done with his fitting, which meant they would concentrate on her soon, and how would that be when she still had not chosen anything? Perhaps she could come back another day next week. It would be unwise, but this possibility was pertinent.

She looked now, disinterested, at the nearest mannequin, and was quite surprised at her selection. The color was absolutely lovely, a nice off-white silk-satin. The sleeves, while the largest of gigot she had seen so far, were olive velvet like her first selection. She touched at the chrysanthemum pattern on the main fabric and the lace on the cuffs and collar. Very fine needlework. The magnificent detail might be able to make her look past the horrendous sleeves. Up here at this altitude, she feared she might be blown away if the wind caught her just right.

“It’s a beautiful dress, isn’t it?” Martha and Ingrid were suddenly next to her, smiling.

“Yes it is,” Rosalind agreed, out of courtesy and her own opinion. They must have taken her brief interaction as an invitation to talk. Just her luck. Or perhaps she could use their advice? She had completely forgotten that was why she had moved nearer to them in the first place.

“I’ve heard Lady Comstock herself has a dress very similar that she plans to wear for the occasion,” Martha said.

“Oh,” Rosalind exclaimed, removing her hand from the dress quickly. It occurred to her from their scandalized faces, just as quickly, that they might have actually thought to emulate the first lady’s style of dress. “I, ah, shouldn’t like to give her cause to think I was in the mind to outdo her,” she added, realizing that that, also, might have been offensive.

Martha either brushed off the comment, or believed Rosalind was being modest. “I’m sure our Lady would be quite flattered,” she said.

It was Rosalind’s strong belief that Lady Comstock would not be so pleased if she chose to dress as her, especially if it was her first appearance in a public event.

“From other women perhaps, but this will be my first time attending the Ball, this year,” she revealed. More than anything, she wanted to steer the conversation away from Lady Comstock. The woman, though she had been polite in the past, was becoming increasingly taciturn and cold. Whatever the reason for it—and she suspected many things—she did not care to know. Perhaps it was something as silly as a falsely perceived threat to her popularity. Lady Comstock was known for her marriage to Columbia’s leader, but Rosalind was a woman known by her own accord. What was it about women seeing each other as a threat? If the poor woman thought truly about it, she would see there was no competition at all.

“Oh how foolish of me! Something quite different for next week would be appropriate for what you were looking for.”

“But of course, Madame Lutece, that does not mean you can’t wear it for another occasion,” Ingrid offered.

“Yes,” Martha agreed, nodding quickly, as if to hide her opinion of just a moment before. “It would look lovely at the Spring Luncheon.”

“Ah Madame. There you are. I thought you might be in the other room.” William had come round the corner, textile samples in hand for Martha and Ingrid. “Mr. Lutece is finished with his fitting and would like for you to see it.”

It took every bit of conscious effort not to give a profound sigh of relief. The arrival provided her an opportunity to leave the conversation that was becoming increasing bland.

“Thank-you, Mr. Able. If you’ll excuse, ladies,” she bowed her exit. Normal etiquette would require she acknowledge both of their names, but they had all not been properly introduced, had they?

William returned to helping them, as she made her way back to Robert. She turned the corner, and even from across the room, she could spot him in his impeccable attire. His back was turned and though it made her privy to all the pins and clips cinching the material around him, he looked rather dashing—as he always did—but seeing him in formal wear was entirely pleasing in itself. With the much higher waistcoat and coat, the length of his legs was at its apex, demonstrating truly his height, the trimness of his waist, and the strength of his shoulders; all the makings of a very fine gentleman.

Robert saw her approach in the mirror and pivoted to face her. “How do I look?”

She wondered if it was acceptable to truly answer that question, or to thoroughly enjoy the coy tug at the corner of his mouth. She knew his ruse, his game, because she would be the one to admit aloud to the purest of narcissism.

Rosalind tilted her chin up in mock appraisal. “Dashing. Very dashing,” she told him, and though it was said in jest, she meant it. Were they alone, she might walk up to him and level his tie, or smooth his lapels, even if it wasn’t the final bespoke.

His grin spread slowly across his face, neither overtly cheerful or soundly smug; something that became a blend of the two and the sudden charm of it transfixed her. He had never smiled like this before. Was it his sleek dress altering her perception? Or her thoughts earlier?

“So is everything to your liking then, sir?”

Mr. Hudson’s voice from the corner broke their gaze. Rosalind found sudden interest in the assorted selection of hats to the left of the mirrors, a quiet exhale escaping her lips. Had she been holding her breath?

Through the mirror she saw how he fiddled with his cuffs and tugged on his waistcoat, giving himself a once over. “Very much.” He glanced at her quickly through the reflective glass.

“Good,” he said, draping his tape measure over his shoulders and coming up behind him to remove the jacket. “Your first fit will be ready on Monday.” He led Robert to the dressing room and helped him with the remainder of his attire. When they returned a few minutes later, Mr. Hudson beamed.

“We place our attention on you now, Madame,” he said, leading them both into the women’s section of the store. “Have any selections caught your eye?”

She was aware of Robert’s curious perusal of the dresses on display and of Martha and Ingrid’s in the distance. “A few, though nothing final.”

“Would you like try them on? We can start from the few you fancy.”

“Very well.”

“Which ones?”

She pointed out two and he called another of his assistants who appeared from the women’s dressing rooms. “Susan, Madame Lutece would like to try on a few dresses.”

Though she was young, perhaps nineteen, Susan possessed the kind of presence a nursemaid or scolding kind of woman would much later in years, and she ushered Rosalind into the dressing rooms with polite direction. She held her hands out expectantly to receive her gloves and hat and placed them aside. In the midst of that exchange, the first dress she had pointed out had somehow made its way in the room with them, and Susan was sorting through petticoats that matched the open bust. She selected one and silently began removing Rosalind’s dress.

It was all at once odd to have someone help her with the task again, like she was being attended to by some lady in waiting. If she could not dress herself, how could she prove she could accomplish greater things? Silly that she had to establish such a rule for herself, but that was the way things were. After switching petticoats, she put on the dress, and immediately, she became aware of how bare her shoulders were. No amount of coverage from gloves would hide her speckled skin. Maybe Robert would notice and she could shirk this dress like she already wanted to. She stepped out to show him.

The woman’s section had a designated sitting area and Robert looked up excitedly from where he sat.

Rosalind arched an eyebrow. “Well?”

He took on a more thoughtful expression. “ _Well_ , I like it, but it does seem rather…simple.”

By _simple_ she figured he meant the purpose of this cut and lack of full detail in anything else was to draw attention to the prominent bust. His gaze lingered there briefly before he frowned at the poor excuse for a bow at her waist. The corners of his mouth dipped more as he noticed her playing at her elbow.

“And you’ll be needing a shawl or gloves?”

“I’m not too fond of the lack of sleeves,” she confessed without stating the obvious.

“If you’ll be uncomfortable, I shouldn’t like you to wear it.”

She nodded. So they were in agreement. Turning on her heel, she returned to the dressing room, catching the perplexed expressions of both Susan and Mr. Hudson. They had said nothing of the exchange, surprisingly, perhaps because they were uncertain why Robert’s opinion or hers for Robert earlier, were so important.

The next dress she was helped into was much like the first, with silk-satin but cream in color, and very generous in the sleeves where the other was not.

“And this?” The sleeves, though exaggerated, were not in the gigot style.

“Elegant,” he agreed, “Only-” he struggled to find the words.

“Only?”

“ _Only_ , I shouldn’t like to see your face hidden behind so much material.”

She raised an eyebrow, though it was in surprise this time. When did he become so testy about her attire? He had never been so before. Mr. Hudson and Susan searched for dresses that were more balanced between bodice and skirt but the next one she tried would have been more suitable for an older woman-- _too many frills_ she and Robert had both agreed—and the one after that was very loose. It hung off her like an adder’s molted skin; Robert had looked his most dissatisfied with it.

With this next one, the cut was very flattering. There was no grand bustling of material at the shoulders or feet, instead it manifested as an accompanying train, which was not all too displeasing. She could have it altered, replacing the floral design altogether as well. At this point, if she had to settle for this dress, she would have little to complain about it. She was used to making these kind of exceptions.

His easy smile returned when she stepped out again.

“I quite like this one,” he said.

“As do I. Though, I’m not particularly fond of this design,” she said of the train, and she returned to Mr. Hudson. “Would it be too difficult to alter it?” With only a week until the event, and she wondered if it was too much to ask of him.

“No, Madame, it wouldn’t be a problem,” he answered, but she was aware that just like the restaurant earlier, a business owner like he would not deny her any sort of request, even if it inconvenienced them. “We can go through materials if you like—” he paused. “Actually, I think I have a dress that is similar to this. If you’re willing to try it on, I can bring it around.”

“If you please.” She was appreciative of another option.

“I’ll be right back.”

On her return to the dressing room, Rosalind glanced at Robert for no real reason other than to look at his face and share with him a contained expression of anticipation, one that transformed into another bout of arbitrary grins. What was the cause for these moments to grip them so suddenly? They should devote some time to studying why it occurred—more frequently as well.

Susan gathered up the train and began again with the task of removing the dress. Her silence had not gone unnoticed as she tightened laces and looped buttons, though it mistranslated her dexterity as something coarse and unskilled. Laborious skill like hers did not come from piano lessons and afternoon embroidery, nor did a need for a job like this. Rosalind surmised she did not live in Emporia, but probably somewhere in the middle-class areas—Liberty Lane, perhaps, as that was the closet. Still, it was quite a commute every day, and her attire was impeccable. Mr. Hudson looked to pay her decently it seemed, though there was always the possibility that she only dressed as such while in the shop because of the clientele.

“Here is the dress, Madame,” the girl said. “Will you be trying it on?”

The dress Mr. Hudson had decided might be something of her liking was absolutely marvelous. Hardly in her life had anyone, a stranger moreso, ever had the luck and intuition to meet her expectations. Although this case was more process of elimination. Where there was little complex embroidery and designs, there was solid cream silk fabric; sleeves were neither gigot or shortened; and gimp detailing was deliberate. Even the long fringe at the hem was pleasing.

“Yes I will.”

Her excitement had returned at the prospect of a new dress, and while she had gotten a bit discouraged at the lack of selection that met her taste, finally something she had found interesting had appeared. She hoped Robert would like it. If she found it pleasing, chances are he would too. She held her breath and walked out to show him.

He and Mr. Hudson were chuckling at something, a joke perhaps, and it was the older man who stood up first, absolutely beaming. “You look marvelous, Madame! Though you were marvelous in the other dresses, I can tell you really appreciate this one.”

She smiled, though it was of her own amusement. Was the man so skilled he could read the subtle posturing of a person in their clothing? He was once again making adjustments with his eyes, but she felt she needed none. The fit was excellent. The train might have been too long, but she was tempted to keep it as such and have party-goers on their toes around her the whole evening.

Rosalind faced Robert expectantly, as he had remained seated. Mr. Hudson’s gaze measured and roved, but Robert simply stared, transfixed on her with the same pensive concentration he reserved for the most complex of their equations. She could only match his gaze with one of her own. It was as earlier when he had smiled so arrestingly.

“The train is not too long?” Mr. Hudson fretted of her complaint about the previous dress.

“It’s fine,” she tossed over her shoulder, still not having looked away.

“And the waist or under the arms?” he continued.

She turned her attention to the tailor now to placate him. “No. I do believe it’s a good fit and style.”

“As you say, Madame. Mr. Lutece, what is your opinion?”

Robert stood quickly, as if he remembered his wits about himself and smiled. “She looks lovely.”

“As I agree, sir.” Turning back to her, Mr. Hudson raised his eyebrows. “So will this be your selection?”

She looked at Robert, the effect of his expression having the greatest impact on her decision. “Yes, a very fine one, Mr. Hudson. You have my utmost gratitude.”

“Thank _you_ , Madame. When you are changed, we can finalize everything.”

Susan helped her dress one last time. Her obedience was something that Rosalind approved of at the start of her session, but now she found the girl’s disposition lacking. If she took initiative to apply her other skills, like her knowledge of styles, the whole decisioning process would be time-effective. But, she supposed, she was hired only for her assistance and not her opinion.

Unfortunate, but necessary for business. It was the reason she and Robert had hired Gwendolyn. In spite of that, however, it seems she brought her opinions anyway. Though she found it bothersome at times, she realized now, in the contrast of this shop girl, it contributed to many successes recently. Perhaps she might discuss with Robert the possibility of giving Gwendolyn more responsibilities in the future.

In the reflection of the mirror, as she smoothed her hair into place, she glimpsed Susan as she boxed the dress. There was a delicate intimacy she adopted when she laid the outfit expertly into the confines of the box; she layered material and tucked it gently, different from her harsh buttoning of petticoats and cinching of sashes. The tenderness reminded her of a wet nurse who had grown too fond of her patron family’s children.

“I’m very glad you were able to select something today,” Mr. Hudson said as they exited the dressing room.

“It is thanks to your keen attention and skill, Sir.”

He brought them back round the corner to the register and went through an itemized receipt he had drawn up. The ease of payment in Emporia, and more importantly, for someone of her standing in the City, was quite a blessing. She need only sign a check and the business or establishment she purchased from went directly to the bank with it. Hardly any effort on her part. Mr. Hudson peered over his glasses at her for indication of who would be signing. In actuality, it did not matter whether it was her or Robert who did so, it was the same authorization of course, but she extended her hand for the pen and signed ‘ _R. Lutece.’_ She wondered if anyone else, the bank manager perhaps, noticed the differences in their signature. It was more apparent in longer writing, but in their name, it was almost imperceptible. Robert put emphasis in their initial, but she favored their surname, he pointed out. Indeed, he followed her hand making the strokes and swoops of their name.

Rosalind slid the pen and check across the counter and Robert took the box. “You have a pleasant day, Mr. Hudson,” he said.

When they left the shop and were greeted with the cold air, he gave an animated shiver. “Guess I was foolish to believe the chill had finally left us.”

He smiled, but she noticed now that he did not have his coat either and the breath that escaped him lingered for a moment long enough to remind her of what she’d heard earlier in the shop. They traveled down the street for a minute or so, enough to convince her they moved far enough and fast enough from people resting on benches and tables.

“Robert,” she started, the same time the wind blew, and he leaned closer to hear her.“In the shop, I overheard the women discussing their children-”

He recoiled slightly and looked at her oddly. “And?”

“ _And_ ,” she continued, pushing past his expression. What could he possibly be thinking? “One mentioned her son was witness to something peculiar.”

“How so?”

“From her descriptions, which I pressed out of her, the conclusion I came to was a tear.”

Robert stopped in the middle of the street, rearranging the box from one arm to the other to see her properly. “A tear?” he whispered, leaning in further. His expression bothered her.

“I don’t think we should put too much credit. The boy is known for lies and tantrums.”

He made an unpleasant noise. “Even so, it garners further study. Where?”

“Washington Park, near the large oak tree.”

He considered the information. “I don’t believe we’ve opened any to Washington Park-”

“-There are still times I’ve used the machine for Comstock when you were recovering.”

“Can we assume it’s another pair of us using the machine? Would we be so reckless to leave it open longer than necessary?”

That he did not directly say she was reckless but shifted the blame to an alternate pair of themselves, did not escape her.

“If there _is_ credibility, I don’t believe this is one we opened for study.” _Columbia in flames,_ Ingrid had said. Rosalind hoped it was not a Columbia they lived in; in any universe.

She shivered, though she couldn’t say with certainty whether it was from the breeze. They had stopped in the long shade of an apartment building, and the angle of the sun was low in the sky. She remembered she had forgotten her coat. Robert gave her the expression he usually had when she had forgotten to share information. Slipping her arm into the crook of his elbow, she moved closer to him for warmth, urging him to continue their jaunt.

“We’ll discuss the details when we return home.”

He nodded silently, although from the inattentive gaze he now possessed, she knew he was already deep in thought.

Yes, they would discuss it by the heat of the fire and the audience of their notes. Now that she was not preoccupied as earlier, she fixated on the possibility of such a thing, on the possibility of a tear. Could a child conjur up such a ghastly image?

The top of their house was beginning to peer over the other buildings in the distance, and couldn’t stop herself from urging him faster. The chill was beginning to seep through her gloves. Perhaps once she was inside the safety of her home, all the oddities she experienced today would be answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to ponder:
> 
> \- Spontaneous tears. What could they mean? Elizabeth’s power is one thing, but as a year-old child, she couldn’t possibly be opening all these tears by herself.


	10. Aliquis latet error

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert takes several detours through Emporia in search of a gift for Rosalind.

 

_“Some trickery lies hidden”_

 

* * *

 

**December 20, 1894, Thursday**

Not much had become of the spontaneous tear, fortunately. Or _un_ fortunately. They had studied the location and the surrounding areas. The boy had proven a dead end as well. Despite isolating him for questioning, it seemed his mother’s new attention had quelled any useful information they might have extracted. Still, the lack of evidence had him wondering if it could really have been some young child’s lashing out.

Disappointing, but he had to be sure. Very sure.

Despite what a spontaneous tear would mean, and it would mean _many_ things dangerous and devastating, he was immensely curious of what would and could happen. He was, at his most natural, always curious. Both he and Rosalind had spent time constructing hypotheses of possibilities and discovered just how _creatively curious_ they were. He could not deny that he was interested in studying the effect of trans-dimensional travel on other persons. He himself was not a reliable subject. Yes, there was the girl, but an infant was even more useless to study until she could talk. And _this_ infant was a variable; no counterpart in this universe and a tear severance. Virtually no memories. If an infant version of oneself was introduced to another universe where one was older, would the infant then become an exact counterpart of the older self? He had nearly lost himself to Rosalind’s memories, what more _tabula rasa_?

Robert pursed his lips at himself in the mirror as he replaced his tie. Curious indeed, and _unethical_ in practice. His curiosity was sated, however. If the hypothesis remained a theory in this universe, there stands one universe where it had actually played out, just as there was one universe where he did not spill his tea on his shirt at breakfast this morning. He frowned at that because it meant that Rosalind had not smiled at him from across the table, and he was sad for that counterpart’s average breakfast. Would it have an effect on the rest of the day? On the final fitting of his suit? On the gift he was going to buy for her?

He straightened his tie and waistcoat. Had she, in this negative universe, accepted an invitation from a suitor to attend the Christmas Ball with instead of him?

 _I am already attending with whom I want to be with_ , she had said, and her smile, though fleeting, was enough to affect and urge him to choose to match her expression instead of sip his tea.

Causality? Perhaps; perhaps not. He did not yet _know_ what he was to get her, only that he _was,_ and his decision was made long ago. The difficulty he was facing today was finding a way to separate from Rosalind to shop for her—a dilemma he had never faced. They were always together unless the situation demanded they be apart, and his final fitting was something she would surely want to see. He wanted her to see it. He valued her opinion of course, but...he remembered how she looked at him during the first fitting. There had been a moment, when he had smiled at her and her smirk faltered, and she stared with such intense fascination. At university, if a woman had given him that look, he knew exactly what it meant, but Rosalind was not _just_ a woman. If she glanced at him like that, what was the meaning of it?

Robert stopped his actions completely and peered at himself. Heavy eyes, copper complexion, rounded chin. What did she see that was not reflection?

_While he is drinking he beholds himself reflected in the mirror pool—and loves…all that is lovely in himself he loves, and in his witless way he wants himself._

Narcissus. His boyhood lessons came back in an unbidden swell, something that was occurring more frequently—a possible symptom of his spells? He pushed the immediate concern of it away in light of his tangent. The subject of the vainglorious hunter was something they oft discussed, their situation being what it was of course, but never had he truly stopped to heed the literal context of the myth, that there was another layer forming in their relationship.

All that came to mind in the aftermath of the new attention was another fragment. _But why O foolish boy, so vainly catching at this flitting form?_

He looked to his features again and he saw the deepening grooves on his forehead, the sallowness of his cheeks, the lines at the corner of his eyes. Why _him?_ Surely he was plain to her eyes, he thought, but even still, he had never thought _her_ plain. In the familiarity of her face, he saw beauty, elegance, dominance. He searched, a third time, to see if he spotted the very traits in himself, and found only his frown and his wits once more.

How had his thoughts drifted into such drivel so early in the day?

The answer, he supposed, was that actions as simple as tea staining a tie were now distinctly notable and variable instead of inconvenient. If Rosalind was struggling with the new perspective, she hid it well. Or did she choose to focus only on one reality-- _hers--_ something he could never do, he a product of two? At this moment, might she only be focusing on the amount of time it was taking him to make a minor adjustment to his attire? He finally moved away from the mirror and headed to join her again downstairs.

She was where he left her last at the kitchen median, only the invitation that had arrived earlier today was folded uninterestedly under her saucer. The corner of his mouth tugged slightly.

“Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_ ,” he started, going back to his tea across from her. She looked up mildly interested from the _Chronicle_ she had begun to read everyday in the past week after the possible incident with the tear. “Narcissus would take his own life in this reality, yes?”

“Drowning,” she corrected with the easy smile she donned when his P’s and Q’s were muddled.

“Ah, of course,” he said, consolidating the information. He did prefer drowning as the end to the tale; implications of complete devotion rather than despair.

Rosalind placed the newspaper down, palms laying over the smooth paper. “That is the _generally_ accepted ending to the myth, of course. There is text by one Pausanias who found the idea of a grown man so enamored with his reflection utterly preposterous. His version changes the myth all together, proposing that Narcissus instead was in love with his twin sister who hunted and dressed as he did. When she died, he found his reflection in a pool to be as she was and so longed for her through his image.”

“I don’t recall you ever mentioning this?”

She waved her hand. “It hardly seemed relevant or important. One man’s repulsion to homo-eroticism and replacing it with incest, in the guise of pedantry, mind you, is not something notable to our situation. Indeed, I hardly see the true myth as either.”

“What do you see it as?” Her answer was suddenly important to him.

“Above all else, it is self-desire.” For the briefest of moments, her attention remained on the knot of his new tie, as if she knew his musings of earlier when looping the material.

He felt it to be all at once constricting, a garrote of implications and, he realized, _hopes_.

She moistened her lips, furrowing her brow, and she had an expression that chilled him. It was briefer than her first, but in that iota, he became a specimen, a thing that might easily break. She blinked, and she found sudden interest in the _Chronicle_ once more.

“Classical start this morning?”

He shrugged despite knowing she couldn’t see him. “More of a misstep.”

With a small grin she looked to him again.“Shall I brush up on my Dante?”

Robert perked an eyebrow; she did not often reference the classics, unless it was an aid for his dissonance.

She tilted her chin up and started,“O sage, famous in wisdom, save me from her-”

“-Save me from her she that-” He paused, grinning as he connected the line. “‘She that _makes my veins and my pulse tremble.’_ I do believe you have taken that out of context.”

“Or given it a new one.” She picked up her tea. “Besides,” she murmured over the rim, “It is only an _exercise_. I would have your blood and wits stay with you if it meant altering literature.”

She drank and he hummed his agreement, though he did not mention it was alteration that more or less caused his confusion. That she cared to bend words, bend reality for him was more than recompense.

Displeasure splashed across her face and he knew she had reached the dregs. She set her cup down disinterestedly. "And are you feeling better?" 

"In the pink," Robert offered, keen once more to what had been his original worry. "Actually, I was going to tell you that I could do my final fitting myself and save you the trouble of a walk and wait. I shall be quick," he added.

He expected her insistence, or at the very least, her inquiry, but she simply nodded as if she had something else to do. "Alright."

Robert blinked, thrown by the reaction. Perhaps he had been wrong about everything; her reaction, her interest. Or perhaps she didn't want to have another encounter like at the tailor’s. He mustered his best smile, regardless.

With that, Robert headed out, leaving the kitchen and his home with a feeling he had never experienced before. He fought the compulsion to turn back, to invite her to come along, and even more, to ascertain her distance.

* * *

 

Hudson’s was the portrait of business and bustle. The hour was early, but he had passed several citizens on the street with dress and hat boxes. Could it be that the Christmas Ball at the end of the week has Emporia fervent for the festivities and social impression? Or was it the well appreciated change in weather from last week that everyone took to resuming their activities with fervor? Whatever the reason, there were two gentlemen waiting to be helped before he was when he entered the shop. Mr. Hudson and Mr. Able were navigating about the shop, either laying out yards of material here, or reassuring an opinion there. They flitted between customers and shop workers, displaying a coordination that came only with years of working together.

After the completion of a cycle—he was watching closely how a trip to the storage area on the lower floor generally signified a completed order—Mr. Hudson approached the gentlemen waiting.

“Mr. Grant, Mr. Roland. I do apologize, but Mr. Lutece only needs a final fitting.”

Robert did not care to look if they displayed recognition or objection on their faces. He declined politely. “I can wait, sir.” He doubted people would be so forgiving of his exceptional treatment if Rosalind was not in sight. “Or I come back in a few minute’s time.” Actually it worked out perfectly; he’d have more time to search for a gift.

“Forty-five minutes," he stated, certain of his timing, and Robert was quite sure of his estimation.

"I shall return after that time," Robert agreed. He gave a curt nod and left the tailor's.

Outside the shop, he slid his deerskin gloves over his hands. The weather was warming, due in part to their suggestion to navigate the city southward, but it was still winter. He rubbed his hands eagerly to warm them and headed towards the majority of Market Street.

He'd been mulling several gifts for Rosalind. A book, naturally, was his first choice. He thought of what he'd might like, because of course, it meant that she would as well, but any books that interested them were already available in their own collection or added to it weekly. She did enjoy novels, though, while he preferred the classics, and that was the variable between them. If he did not find anything better, that would be his final choice. He considered a dagger as well that would accompany Father's rapiers that hung on the wall in the music room, though he would be hard pressed to find fine weaponry up here. He would check the antique store at the end of Victory Lane.

As he strolled down Market street, past the fountain plaza and his house, the prominent placard of Magical Melodies peeked above the buildings, and Robert thought he also might check the music store for sheet music. She'd kept up with her piano better than he had, but he did not mind it. Her skill and practice were significant to his recovery, and even now, he did not know why, but he was always enraptured with her slender fingers dancing over ivory. There were other things he considered, if he could not attain the previous ones, but it was dangerous territory. A brush, a necklace, he'd seen enough of her personal feminine items to know that she used them, and at the very least, accepted their finery, but beyond that he did not know her tastes or opinion. If he delved too much into the thought, he felt the beginnings of a spell.

Columbia only had one antiques shop, and the question that bothered him the most was not what they had for sale, but how they remained open for business. Where did they get their merchandise? He understood the appeal because many citizens undoubtedly had to give up many of their possessions moving into these new homes, and a candelabra or a sextant that ‘looked like grandfather's’ would incite enough nostalgia to keep a person floating miles above the earth comfortable. He was curious what the owner of D. Fracon Antiques thought would be appropriate history for a floating city. The irony of the shop was that the building itself, the masonry, the glassware, was younger than what it housed, but the Federal Style it was modeled as closed the gap in years. Only a year the shop had been open, but he was greeted with the scent of mahogany and rosewood and tarnished copper and zinc; the smell of attics and summer homes when maids removed the sheets off tables and clocks and wiped autumn’s leaves and winter’s dust. A bright face greeted him when he entered, too youthful by appearance to know much about the aged items on sale, but he knew from the two times he'd been here previous that it truly was a facade.

"Good morning, sir."

"Good morning."

Her name was Caroline Fracon, and though she’d never introduced herself, he could not forget her exceptional knowledge in late 17th Century glassware, nor her marriage to Mr. Fracon, twenty or so years her senior. Their coupling was not so odd as to be uncommon, but husband and wife appeared to get along quite well. He suspected it was her interest in history, but it could have been something else entirely.

"Something on your mind to buy?"

"Yes actually. I'm looking for a dagger, preferably European." In a city named after the personification of America, he doubted he would find what he was looking for, but the oddest of things appeared in the places you least expect.

“European? I’m not sure that we have one, but let’s take a look.”

Mrs. Fracon let him to their back wall, past the display dedicated to chess battalions of old pewter kings, marbled Romans, and wooden Forefathers; past the wall of clocks that ticked with the craftsmanship of makers they outlived. He paused when he passed them considering a humorous gift. Time, for them, was becoming dull and relative. There was only the one clock in the parlor that worked; the constant flux of Newtonian and Lutece Fields stopped all clocks within their home. The frequency of it was enough that they'd grown accustomed to watching the angle of the sun and, more recently, having Gwendolyn keep track of important events for them.

"Have you an appreciation for clocks, Sir?" Mrs. Fracon noticed his pondering. When she smiled at the clock faces instead of his, he wondered whether her appreciation of antiques impeded her attention to anything else. He was not vain--well, that is to say, he was not _vainglorious_ \--but he doubted if she even knew who he was. 

"A clock that ran backwards came into our possession once. When we tried to get it repaired, we discovered it was crafted to run that way."

Now that  _was_  intriguing, and he told her as such, to which she hummed in agreement.

"But you're not here for a clock," she said, and moved on to the back of the room.

Had she not been lost in her world of time and its keepers, she'd have seen his appraisal with her bluntness. He favored pragmatism over pleasantries most days, and if people dispensed with the weather chatter and the goings on of the mundane, then business and knowledge alike would benefit.

The end of the shop was reserved for weapons, and the entire wall of it did not have to convince him that Americans certainly had an appreciation for them; a proclivity for firearms he'd never seen in any other nation. Many were unique, as personal in design and construction as the clocks, but their age and commonness meant very little to him. They owned a few yes. Rosalind had father’s hunting rifle in an armoire--protection really, though not from any external threats. They'd opened some unpleasant tears in the past.

Caroline made her way to a display case that housed tempered steel, quite a collection of it, he'd noticed since the last time he had been through here, but it was still a very limited hoard comprised primarily of officer's swords from American conflicts and French inspired Indian tomahawks--no doubt souvenirs from those conflicts as well. She seemed as disappointed as he was at the lack of selection, but she turned to him again for the first time since he entered.

"We received a shipment earlier this month with an Italian dagger. My husband is restoring it, but I'll ask him to bring it round for you, sir."

"Thank you. I would appreciate that very much."

Her departure allowed him more time to consider his selection. Father's rapiers were the only things, the only _tangible_ things, that remained of his past life, and even then, they weren't his. He'd sold them in his universe, a decision he thought about even when working at his hardest. That she kept hers, despite her struggles, was a testament of her strength and willpower. In the presence of old belongings, he smiled to himself, and moments later, frowned. She had kept them. Why? Had he ever asked Rosalind if Father had taught her to duel? The sight of the swords was so familiar to him it never occurred that he should ask. Much of her life was so similar to his that he had not considered that this was a variable, as was Cambridge, as was Aunt Freddie, as was his art to her music. He would ask her, perhaps they might even duel--what would the result of _that_ be?

Both husband and wife returned after a minute or so, and Mr. Fracon, peppered hair, greeted him as most shopkeepers did. 

"Here you are, Sir," he presented. "Italian made, 17th century style."

He'd seen some Italian steel in the past and admired the delicate flourished foliage, but this one was very niche, possibly a specific commission for its original owner, and as such, would appeal only to an even smaller group of people. There was elegance in its construction; the fuller was grooved deep in blade, foliage sculpted into ricasso, but the manner of its design, sea serpents and leviathans, would hardly match the swords they had at the house, and that was his original intent.

Robert had to decline. "It is absolutely beautiful, sir, but unfortunately not what I'm looking for."

Mr. Fracon wrapped the dagger in the linen he held it with. "Next time then. I'll keep an eye out for your particular interest. Do you have a style in mind? Perhaps we can narrow it more.”

“French,” he clarified, “But please do let me know if something comes in.” There was the upcoming conundrum of birthdays and if not, the opportunity for future gift-giving.

“Of course. You have a pleasant day, Mr. Lutece.” There was no gesture of assistance that usually accompanied shop owners, and Robert knew it was because this was no ordinary shop. Patrons did not peruse until something caught their eye; they _connected_ with each antique, conscious of its history, certain that it would gain more in their possession.

“And you, Mr. Fracon. Madam,” he nodded, before leaving the shop.

Back on the cold street, he had a clearer decision of what to get Rosalind now, and he sought out the placard of Magical Melodies. The shop’s location surprised him. Across from the cemetery, tucked away in a quaint corner, it hardly seemed the place for a Fink. Albert was as brilliant and creative as his brother, it seemed, but by observation, was the more introverted of the two. Married and without the pressures of the family business, he had the opportunity to expand upon his true passion; music. While Robert himself had not heard much of his work, what he had heard was brilliant, but there was something peculiar about it that he couldn’t place. In his listening, he was thrown by both the genius of it, and the lack of discernible progression. In art, in music, in science, the evolution of development, exploration and error, was always apparent in work. Even he and Rosalind had papers and theories that were rubbish. Albert Fink's prose, his chord progression, he was still trying to see the connecting thread, as he was with his brother's latest project. Perhaps the brothers worked so uniquely as to appear erratic? And  _perhaps_ , Rosalind had uttered several times, he gave them too much _credit_. Perhaps he did, he relented, but was it his fault he enjoyed music so much? He'd never heard composition and lyrical structure quite like that before. Even now, a trilling melody filled the air, just cheerful and respectful enough to uplift the mood of the street the shop shared with the cemetery.

Robert reached the shop front. In his early months after his transference, when Rosalind had deemed his strength and wits ready for short trips, much of his outings were to Magical Melodies. She either thought Albert innocuous, or his well-being and musical therapy was of her utmost importance; Robert smiled at that. On one visit, they had purchased an upright piano, another gramophone, and all available records in the shop. Naturally, the younger Fink was very pleased and very interested in conversing with them about the latest musical additions in Columbia. Rosalind was worried his enthusiasm would bring him straight to their front door, but despite their residence proximity, their lifestyles demanded much attention that nothing ever came of it beyond the rare happening throughout the city.

It is a jovial and lighthearted tune that envelops him when he opens the door. In the center of the floor, Albert worked at the keys while his wife sang. They stopped abruptly, and Robert thought they’d taken notice of his entrance, but they pouted at each other.

“Y’know, Ruth, what if we just picked up from the next stanza?”

“Skip the bridge?”

 “Yup. So it’d go ‘ _Giddy-up jingle horse, pick up your feet_ …’”

“- _Jingle around the clock_ ,” Ruth joined in. “ _Mix and a-mingle with the jingling beat’_ \- Yes, I like that much better.”

“Me too.” Albert moved to mark the correction on the sheet music, grinning to himself. In his editing, he glanced up, surprised they had a visitor.

“Lutece!” he exclaimed, pushing away from the piano, and rushed to shake his hand. “My apologies. Ruth and I are working on something for our own entertainment.”

Robert gave a bob of greeting to her. “It sounds lovely.”

Albert waved his hand. “Not _quite_ as lovely as it could be, but we’re getting there,” he said. “But,” he rubbed his hands in anticipation, “You aren’t here to listen to music. Unless, you _are_ ,” he baited, wagging a dark eyebrow.

It’s ability to procure a genuine smile and interest from him removed initial qualms he held, though not all worries altogether. Still, it was certainly easier to discern Albert’s intentions; his jokes and double entendre than with his brother.

“Much as I’d love to, I’m on a tight schedule. I’m looking for a gift for Rosalind. Do you have pieces for four hands? Any will do, though Chopin is a favorite.”

“Four hands?” Hands on his hips, Albert smacked his lips, pursing them as he recalled his inventory. He pivoted slightly to consult with his wife. “We have sonatas from Bach, Brahms…”

“And the Schubert.”

“Yes, of course, the Schubert, and I know we have at _least one_ Chopin on hand; we were practicing a few weeks ago.” He spun around and inclined his head at the bookshelf near the window, signaling them to follow him. “Let’s have a look.”

Ruth moved to the opposite end of the mahogany case and pulled out three works by Schubert, continuing on to several more.

“No records this visit?” Albert asked cheerily, thumbing through the volumes. “We had a batch of Christmastime come in. And one of my own compositions that will have its debut at the Ball. It’s not on sale yet, but, I can make an exception for someone with an appreciation for the musical arts.”

“Is it the one I heard coming in?”

“Oh no, something better. The one earlier is, as I said, for fun. Not sure how that will fit into easy listening. Probably just one of those tunes meant to share around the piano with some eggnog. Ah!”

He pulled out two pieces from Chopin, frowning. “I thought we had more. Here’s what your looking for, a _Variations in D Major of T. Moore_ , and _not_ what you’re looking for; _Op. 28, No. 4._ Beautiful, if a bit somber.” He handed it to Robert to look over and the other to his wife.

Robert glanced through it, as that was what Albert wanted him to do, but in truth, he could not look at music without playing it first to know how it sounded—Rosalind had developed that skill, not him.

“She’ll enjoy this,” he feigned, partially. When it wasn’t waltzes, she favored lulling, poignant melodies, and while they _were_ beautiful, he preferred lively to melancholic.

“Good, good.” Taking the stack from Ruth, Albert led them back to the piano and he splayed the booklets across the smooth ebony top. “Alright. Let’s see. Schubert, Bach, Brahms, Chopin, Chabrier,” he listed and organized. Fingertips nudged spines and staples until they lined up accordingly.

Robert observed the compulsive action, taking care to remember that however warm Albert was, he was still a Fink; still bearing the dark resemblance, still sharp as a knife. In the brief moment his eyes flicked from the sheet music to his face, he felt for the second time that morning, a scrutinizing perception that chilled him. But then, it seemed the gaze softened, or was it merely _hidden_ — by a practiced charm.

“Will you be taking them all?”

“Ah,” Robert examined each of the stacks, mindful of keeping corners aligned. “I should love to, but I wouldn’t care to overwhelm her, not that much can, but we are immensely busy as it is.”

“Yes, yes. The business with the reactors. Ruth and I have peace of mind knowing you two live so close. Glad the winter is coming to an end.”

“Me too. I think I’ll save the Bach for another visit.”

“Alright. I’ll hold you to that!”Albert said, tapping the piano top, before gathering the booklets and handing them to his wife to put it away. “Ruth, dear, would you please keep this on reserve for Mr. Lutece? I’m joshing,” he waved. “But I can put it aside if it’s something you are looking forward to,” he offered.

“Oh no, please. If someone has an interest for it, by all means, let them have. Next visit, we could be in the mood for Wagner.”

“Ah! I will have that ready then for you next time,” he continued light-heartedly. From the counter he procured a fine leather folio and placed the remaining sheet music inside. “Jeremiah tells me you and your sister are attending the Ball this year!”

Like his brother a two weeks ago, he looked genuinely pleased they were attending, and like earlier, he was surprised that they were.

“Yes. We’re looking forward to it, and your music,” he added.

“As am I.”

Ruth returned to his side and presented the receipt to Robert. He signed it.

Albert smiled warmly, and Robert wondered if that’s what Fink’s would look like if it wasn’t hidden underneath a strip of hair. “You have a pleasant day. Hope to see you very soon.”

“And you.” He bid his exit and tucked the precious folio into the hollow of his arm while he donned his hat and gloves once more.

It was such a shame they preferred to steer clear of the Finks whenever possible. Jeremiah at least; Albert seemed amicable at best. Yes, Rosalind admitted that Fink’s name had a reputation here, but it had one on the mainland as well. _Railroads, steel, efficiency_. And while there was not much solid evidence of shade, there was that incident in 1889 in Pennsylvania about a flood, and the unfortunate instance with that Tesla fellow. And now these vigors? Truly, Rosalind scented something stronger than he did, but there _was_ something he couldn’t quite place. Perhaps, it was Rosalind’s memories influencing his again.

Ah, such another travesty that the memories of hers he remembered most were not helpful to him in the slightest. He longed to see her collecting bugs in the meadow as a girl or her standing before a panel of men and lifting a city into the sky. Instead, he recalled arguments and chastisement. Nothing pleasant or cluing to a gift she’d like. At that he held the folio tighter to him and he smiled. Christmas couldn’t come soon enough. It would be his first true Christmas with her. Last year did not count between spells and reorientation, especially when he had not been able to leave the house to get her something. _I have you this year,_ she had said. _And that is all I ask for._

She had given him a journal and by February, he had filled it with all the things he needed and wanted to remember. What would she get him this year? And what would she expect from him? She would not expect _this,_ and the more he thought of the papers under his arm, the more he remembered her requests to play songs from childhood that required two people. _Rudimentary_ , one might say, but so were his thoughts when he struggled to piece them in those early months.

He decided he’d have to cut across Harmony Lane and the majority of Downtown to avoid walking past his home again, lest he be caught by Rosalind, and he took the detour back to Hudson’s. He passed the prophet colossus and the gates that lead to Comstock House. The sky was clear and in the distance the Founding Fathers appeared to lessen their usual penetrating scowl in the agreeable weather. Even the number of people on the street had increased since earlier. In fact, he began to notice, the top hats and fine furs seemed to stream toward the central street and when he reached the bottom of the steps he saw they were headed to the amphitheater. He recognized instantly the voice that projected out of it.

The _Prophet_ had to keep up his act. What was he discussing this time? Their last session had not procured anything significant, beyond that document. He had to admit he was mildly curious to see if the subject of today’s preaching had anything to do with that. Against his better judgment, he stopped near the entrance and peeked inside.

“…brothers and sisters,” Comstock implored—such a _boorish_ voice. “You must be _content_ with what you are given. If you are given riches, _so be it._ If you are given land, _it is a blessing…”_

Robert gritted for a few moments longer. He didn’t care much for American oration, especially those that took their cues from awakenings and southern antebellum.

“Cursing the Lord for what He has given you is _ungrateful_. Stopping your work because you believe it unfair is _selfish_. What of the fine folk who rely on others for food? For services? What of Charlotte who cannot feed her children because the dairy farms don’t want to sell milk? Stopping work doesn't solve problems. _It creates them.”_  

Robert rolled his eyes. He was long since bored with the man, a one-trick pony. The innocent anecdotes, the scolding father routine. He would now soon take Scripture and bend it for his message. What was it anyway? His assumption, from all this mention of labor and farms, must have some connection to the Populists. He knew only of their threatened strikes and plea for open political discussion only from the newspapers. Were they really that much of a threat in Columbia? Truly it was only Comstock who had bad blood with its leader Amos Sutherland. 13,000 feet in the air and Congress still held its leash.

He glanced now at the sea of heads. Ridiculous really, how they flocked to him blindly, but those that did not have heaven in their eyes had silver eagles. 

“The Good Book says,” Comstock began. _Ah there it was_. “Do not neglect to do good and _share_ what you have. For such sacrifices are _pleasing_ to the Lord. The Good Book says: All hard work brings a profit, but _mere talk_ leads only to poverty.” 

Turning on his heel, he made to continue his errands. He had _much_ more important things to do.

“And finally, my children, _the Good Book **says**_ : Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists the authorities that God has appointed will **incur judgment…** ” 

Robert paused, listening to the rest. “…For rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. For _he_ is the **servant of God** , an _avenger_ who carries out _God’s wrath_ on the wrongdoer.” 

That was not how he _usually_ finished. If anything, it sounded like a direct threat. Naturally, Comstock exerted his power from time to time, kept his “flock” line by predicting the wolves with his “visions,” but as far as he knew, he had no vision to back this up. Or did he? 

He scoffed, continuing across the bridge. Why spoil his morning with a man they constantly reminded not to overstep his bounds? He’d discuss it later with Rosalind. She was better at deciphering the man than he was. Outside of their home, what Comstock did; politics, preaching, pandering; was really nothing he was interested in.

Still, as he passed Cunningham Studios and crossed into the chilly shade of Emporia Towers, he couldn't help but wonder if this was something they’d have to keep an eye on. Beyond tracking alternate Columbias and monitoring a stolen child, would they be caught in something else for Comstock’s decisions?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ponderings:
> 
> -The Finks are excited for the Ball and that Rosalind and Robert are attending, why do you think?
> 
> \- What could Comstock possibly have in mind? Is it connected to the previous tear session they had and the document? (hint: Lady Comstock’s voxophone, Dec 28th 1894).
> 
> A/n: A very special thank you to Nitensalis who provided much information on Dante translations and information on Pausanias


	11. Ad idem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of deciding on a gift for Robert, Rosalind discovers a few things.

_“Of the same mind”_

 

* * *

 

She remained focused on the newspaper until she heard the parlor door close, uninterested in the slightest at the Columbian news this morning. Oh, she prided herself that she could stare unflinching, gloat even, when a man was hurt by her coolness, but she could not bear to look at Robert, even his retreating back, for fear of seeing a slump in his shoulders. He was not  _just_  a man, the very reason she feigned disinterest in his request to go to his final fitting. She needed an excuse to slip out unnoticed and purchase him a gift for Christmas. What was a little bit of suffering for the sake of pleasure? It was like pulling a tooth or plucking a thorn. But he was not so innocent as well; what was his excuse for solitude? It was in her interest to go with him to the tailor’s and see him in full regalia, but she would have a whole evening of that, wouldn’t she? And she would have him to herself.

Rosalind smirked. Most women loathed to have their brother’s hand for the evening, but not she. Invitations for her hand had come in, but they were promptly returned, just like this one under saucer will be. Poor Mr. Whitechurch. She was almost disappointed turning his request down. An artist and young, he was different than the others she’d received; older gentlemen,  _wealthy_  gentlemen, men who would speak at her, above her,  _for_  her. Instead of honored guest, she would be prized accessory, like some Lady Olivia fending off Orsino and other suitors.

Robert was none of these, of course. He was her equal, always. If anything,  _he_  was in danger of becoming her accessory, for this Ball would essentially be his debut in Columbia. For months, she’d smiled sweetly at incessant and quite frankly, nosy questions.  _‘When might we have the pleasure of your brother’s company?’ ‘How has he taken to the air in Columbia?’ ‘Has he recovered well?’_  In some ways, she had such a primitive selfishness, and often enough, an overwhelming possessiveness threatened to take her. Robert was  _her_  marvel,  _her_  gift,  _hers_  alone. And when it wasn’t that, she wanted to proclaim his  _existence_ , his  _beauty_ , his  _impossibility_.

She stood and placed her used teacup in the sink. He was always inciting such conflicting emotions within her, the most current being frustration. She had never had the opportunity to buy a gift for someone other than herself, and with Robert, what they didn’t share had been necessity. Music, clothes, even his journal last year was to aid in his recovery. What was she to get him now that he was whole?

The idea of books had been mulling in her mind for some time now. He did so love his Classics. This reality proved he still had much to learn about them; he would appreciate the alternate versions. Her imagination did not skew towards Greek tragedy when she was a girl so much, unless one counted Narcissus. After her dream, her mother, perhaps trying to disillusion her, warned her with the myth, of its moral. While Mother was fearing of God, conscientious of vanity and all its snares, she had pursued the flitting form for answers, sought Ovid, and Caravaggio, and Poussin until she had made it tangible, corporeal, a form that she could reflect back at. What earthly treasure did she now seek to place a smile about his lips so she could do the same? That was today’s adventure.

But first, to make another man frown.

She went to their desk near the stairs and fetched their finest paper from the third drawer—in need of replenishing after the constant usage leading to the Ball.

_‘Dear Mr. Whitechurch. I am pleased to have received your invitation, but unfortunately, I must decline…’_

Yes, yes, she could write the words in her sleep now. Hopefully, and etiquette _demanded_ that it be, this would be the last of the invitations. When she opened the bottom drawer to put away the inkwell, one of their journals jostled open from the movement and the pages caught her attention. Again, the margins were filled with drawings, and she took the journal out to look at them more closely. The front door opened a moment later, however, and she immediately thought Robert had returned, but then the rustle of a dress could be heard, and she knew Gwendolyn had returned from her usual errands to the bookstores. Excellent. She would know the climate of the shops.

Rosalind placed the journal back, sealed the letter, and grabbed her coat from the hanger near the door.

“Ah, Gwendolyn,” she started, finding her sorting books on the front desk. “How was the selection this week?”

“Mild, Madame. The shipments from the mainland are still backed up from the storms a few weeks ago. Only one came in, but I managed to get a few titles,” she said, gesturing to the books.

Her eyes swept down the spines, always enjoying the neat lettering. There were a few novels;  _The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, The Jungle Book_ , and non-fiction;  _The History of Trade Unionism, On the Content and Objects of Presentations, The Human Drift_. Most were from England, and she was impressed with that, because she had not instructed Gwendolyn to look for such books. But another stack caught her attention, and she was perplexed by the separation;  _The Story of a Modern Woman, Wood Beyond the World, People of the Mist, 2894_. All appeared to be novels.

Gwendolyn rushed to separate the stack from the rest. “Oh, these are books I purchased for myself.” 

Rosalind studied her for a moment. “Do you read many books, Gwendolyn?” She recalled her initial amazement at the wall of books throughout their house. Naturally there were more, but their more  _delicate_  literature was on the second floor, far from prying eyes. 

“Yes.” 

“Good,” she said, and Gwendolyn smiled. “Although,” she continued, “The number of books one reads is not so much important as the subject of such literature.” 

The words slipped out of her as it would have her mother, but she did believe it to be true for the most part. She would find no interest in someone who read fifty books on tailoring, but if someone had read just  _one_  of her books, well then that was something entirely different. If Gwendolyn enjoyed reading, she did not mind lending books to her. At least  _one_  other woman in Columbia would be enlightened. 

“And do you appreciate music, Madame?” 

She inclined her head. "Come again?"

"I hear music playing often. Do you and Mr. Lutece enjoy it?"

"Yes, we do.” 

The question, odd as it was in the subject of their discussion, was direct, mirroring; drawn from observation and not opinion. A curious person interested in her life as madame scientist had much more intrusive inquiries--parents, schooling, finance, matters of the heart, as if they could pinpoint exactly what pushed her into her lifestyle. 

In her time here, Gwendolyn had never asked such questions as previous hires had, though she was never out of inquiries. Always a ‘ _Have I reset the meters properly, Madame?_ ’ or  _‘Shall I pull the files on last week’s readings for comparison, Madame?’_  Very keen, very perceptive. And now that she had a spare moment to consider the girl beyond her immediate skillset, it came to her attention that she had never cared to put more thought into why the niece of a Founder was eager to work here, was so proficient in her work.

In truth, Rosalind had not expected her to last this long in their employ, and really it was Robert who had suggested the entire arrangement. Where she saw an unnecessary nuisance and liability, he saw more time to themselves now that they were freed from the mundane responsibilities.  _And_ , he had said so persuasively, this was a laboratory, and as Madame Scientist of earth's greatest marvel, she was entitled to assistants.

Regrettably, she could not bring up to him that as Madame scientist, she had grown accustomed to working alone, relying on herself, indeed, maintaining that even when Robert crossed over in the vain conundrum that was their own, but perhaps she had made a hasty judgment--she recognized and awarded talent and skill, after all. She considered the books again, what their number and context could reveal.

“You have a good eye, an open mind. What books capture your attention?" 

Gwendolyn stood straighter in her chair. "Well, I've always enjoyed novels." 

"Any in particular?" 

"The Modern Prometheus."

Rosalind arched an eyebrow. "Very interesting." Once, she had considered the novel to be despairing and was not altogether too sympathetic of the gentleman scientist whose life spiraled from self-made disaster. Since Robert had entered her life, however, she did not hold to that feeling much any longer. She focused instead on the implication of power and responsibility and of maker and creation. She kept her bearded monster sated with visions and prophecy. Or was she herself both maker  _and_  creation, providing a unique companion to spend her days with? Oh Robert would enjoy that new analogy. 

"I do enjoy other books," Gwendolyn continued. "I've read both of yours. I don't pretend to understand it all, but it is interesting, and I think it's important, considering where we live." 

Rosalind leaned on the counter, her focus trained on Gwendolyn again. What a very  _interesting_  girl. 

"And what of this?" She slid  _The Story of a Modern Woman_ across the table. "Is this frequent subject matter? Or new interest?" 

"Frequent. Though my Uncle would prefer it not,” she said quickly in the same breath. Rosalind would have raised another eyebrow for further elucidation, but the girl continued without any prodding. “He sees my arrival in Columbia as an opportunity for a daughter." 

"You don't?" The relationship between their assistant and the tobacco magnate Founder had never been discussed beyond what was obvious; so it was not as  _close_  as she and Robert suspected. 

"I prefer my independence, however difficult it may be." 

"We would often be sorry if our wishes were granted." Her mother had uttered the saying much to her, but again, she reversed the narrow condescension and used it as a lesson.Only a woman would understand truly what independence was and what it cost, as she was so constantly reminded of even now in her marvel city. 

"You must think me ungrateful," she said, but looked quite unrepentant.

"Quite the contrary.  _Independence_  is a wonderful thing, but what accompanies it is often enough to make you question your decision. It is not so easy being a woman." Oh it was not so easy. She had never spoken of it to anyone, not even Robert, though he lived it through his dissonance. Yes, America was much more allowing in matters of women than England was, but Columbia? She was its Mother. Even then, children did not always follow the fifth commandment. 

Gwendolyn dipped her head in agreement that could have only come from experience. "I was lucky enough to dodge the factories and worked in my father's firm even after he passed." 

Yes, it was fortunate, though she suspected it was more out of charity from her father’s business partner than her actual capability. A woman in a law firm? The only thing worse was a woman in medicine or science. Still, that explained her pragmatism, her discretion, and she recalled the issue of office experience when they interviewed her. Perhaps she  _had_  remained employed for her abilities and connections. 

"Then you came here." Personal matters such as these hardly ever concerned her, but then again, it was less occurring still, that she encountered an independent woman. 

"I was hesitant of the offer at first, but a city in the sky put there by a woman?" She glanced at Rosalind quickly before finding sudden interest in the papers on the desk. "I couldn't refuse." 

She was not vain, in the sense that she demanded praise constantly, but she was immensely pleased. Whether she wanted or not, many thought to share their choices for moving to Columbia with her; fresh air, the marvel, the novelty, the new offerings, but never, never had anyone come to Columbia because of  _her_ , what she had done as a  _woman_. She looked at Gwendolyn Marlowe with new intent. 

"And now that you are here, what plans have you for the future? - _Not_ that we have plans to remove you any time soon,” Rosalind clarified, seeing her expression grow to uncertainty. “We have grown accustomed to your fine work. Which is why, I ask. You are very astute, very uniquely skilled." 

"You are too kind Madame, but I suspect I have a tobacco company to help run."

"But that's not what you imagine." 

Gwendolyn looked at her plainly and shrugged. "I could do it for a time, but business? Tobacco? I would fall into boredom soon enough."

Such a career would provide  _stability_ , all the good that would do. She would not have control over the business, despite helping run it at the expense of her own interests. Society stressed and demanded so much from a woman it left her nothing but a puppet to be used. It was a shame bright young women were force to dim their resolve for sustenance, for a  _husband_. Perhaps humanity would be out of this stifling age and pushed forward with innovation if it only considered that extra appendages and muscle did not falsely determine allowances and superiority.

"And if not the trade, what then?" She pressed further, intent to give whatever suppressed desire Gwendolyn had the acknowledgment it needed. If not, then it might be lost forever, pushed aside for security and acceptance. There was interest, there was drive, but support? Even she did not have that until she had proved herself. 

Her shoulders lifted again, hesitant. The same hesitance she'd once adopted when people tried to change her mind about science.

"Surely you must want to pursue  _something_. Actress, shopgirl, housewife-" 

A shudder, the slightest of any, accompanied her thinning lips. "Archivist," she corrected, and Rosalind grinned delightedly. "Or historian. I would do more with my life than sit by a fire." 

"And _what_ , in history and archiving, has enticed you?" 

"Knowledge," she said. A glint had manifested in her eye and her smile returned. "Keeping and minding all that, such a great position."

Indeed it was. "Knowledge itself is power."

"Francis Bacon." 

Rosalind smiled, pleased again. 

"It's encouraging to know that the Greeks made the god of wisdom and knowledge a woman." 

" _Encouraging_  yes, but it was men who made her, and men who would be quick to show that such power in a woman's hands is folly." She would make her thoughts on the matter known in full another time. 

"Well, I still have much to learn." There was disappointment but none too much. 

"The most important thing you can learn, perhaps you've already, is that this is a man's world. And they, however modern the world is becoming, do not appreciate that women have opinions, however exceptionally bright she may be." 

Across the desk, Rosalind witnessed her face harden for a moment. 

"But if chivalry is expected," Gwendolyn started, "Shouldn't that be the best opportunity to display it? To acknowledge a woman." 

"Chivalry," Rosalind clarified very carefully, "Is an establishment protecting a woman from the  _superior_  strength of the male sex.” The definition she had read in a book on etiquette once remained with her clearly. “An _excuse_ to use condescension as a means to protect."

"So, having established themselves as our benefactors and protectors from external forces, determining even our thoughts and interests is considered acceptable?" 

The way she said it, with such reserved indignation, had Rosalind pleased once more.  

"If you mean  _respectable_  then say so,'" she said and Gwendolyn nodded in understanding of the correction. 

She was a bright girl she concluded, though one steeped in pleasantries and etiquette, as was to be expected, but if she were  _pushed_ , then her true intentions and opinions emerged. And she was not intimidated. Could that be a result of her experience? Or living under a red-blooded tobacco man such as Charles Marlowe? Either way, it was a trait to keep in mind. 

"Well, Gwendolyn, I fear I've taken up your time." Indeed, Robert must have reached Hudson's by now and the hour was running thin. 

“Oh no, Madame. I enjoy conversing with you. I’ve merely the reports from the Winter team to sort this morning."

Ah yes, she was expecting those. The numbers were improving every week. "Are they all in?” 

“Still waiting on Mr. Eames and Mr. Peterson.” 

“Has Eames been the last to turn his work in?” 

“Yes, but always still a day ahead of the deadline.” 

“Not a problem. He has always been very careful about the accuracy of his work. Frequently he is the last to complete things."

“And Mr. Sinclair’s is always the first one in,” Gwendolyn added cheerily. 

Rosalind inclined her head. “His enthusiasm is  _quite_  contagious.” As was hers when Leander was mentioned in any vein. Perhaps she might invite Mr. Sinclair over under the pretext of his exemplary work and simultaneously conduct another observation.

Even now, Gwendolyn tapped her fingertips and glanced about furtively. She deflected to the envelope in her hand. "I can send that off for you if you like." 

"Thank-you, but I was just heading out." She made to move to the front door but paused. Truly she was at a lost when shopping, and she cared to see the extent of Gwendolyn's observations.

"Actually, I intended to purchase a gift for Robert--a book-- but since you've informed me of the backlog, I'm at an impasse. I'm familiar with him perhaps too much to know what I might get him. Suggestions?” 

"What have you gotten him in the past? Might I ask." 

"Er, practical things. But I'd like indulge this year." Disconcerting how a simple question from a front girl could catch her off guard, but how might that look to reveal that she had never gotten Robert a gift? 

"May I suggest things he enjoys? Or things he does in his spare moments?" She offered. 

He enjoyed what she enjoyed, then she thought immediately of the sketches in their journals. How often did this occur? While her thoughts were filled with satisfaction at narrowing it down, it was concerning that the amount of time it took her to notice it had been great. Before she had noticed, she was already in the parlor, and she thought maybe she should offer the girl her thanks.

Gwendolyn turned slightly in her chair to face her inquiringly. 

"Enjoy your books," she said, and for once, the pleasantry she dispensed was genuine. 

Returning to their desk, she found the journal where she had left it and studied it more closely. The workbook was full of early infusion processes and theories and they'd abandoned it when the issue with reactors had occurred alarmingly fast. In the margins, between formulas, were small quick sketches of various things; alembics, their letterhead, their rabbits, but as the later pages no longer had work, the sketches were larger, longer, and she found pages of focused studies. Eyes, mouths, noses, hands, and a delicacy that suggested they were hers.  

Her fingers touched at the lines, mindful not to smear them. He had such fine skill, clearly indicative of instruction. At one point their skill must have been identical, but she'd sacrificed her talent for fear that her family might distract her with it in lieu of her stronger proclivities. Better their daughter an artist than a scientist. At least Robert had pursued it. He tended to see the better qualities of a person quicker than she might.  

She turned the page, finding a long sketch of herself. Hair in a loose updo, she looked to be repairing something, probably a magnetic coil if she recalled properly. Despite her very casual dress-down, Robert had captured a very intent opinion, and the great detail in her expression, her lips, the curve of her neck, did not go unnoticed. 

To call the flush she felt flattery would be incorrect,  because a warmth spread through her at the thought that he had observed her with the fullest of attention, the most careful of studies. If she had but glanced up from her own intensity, she would have caught him at his most intense and committed to memory his expression. 

Closing the journal more delicately, Rosalind placed it back in the recesses of the desk, knowing with certainty what she would get Robert. 

She took her coat once more from the hanger and donned it.

"If Robert returns before I do, could you tell him I went to send off a letter?"

"Of course, Madame."

* * *

 

There was, to her knowledge, an art store near Magical Melodies, and the location was convenient as Robert wouldn't be heading in that direction. They'd passed the art shop frequently enough, but never stopped to enter. The assumption that they had no business there came from her observation. He never expressed interest, and she’d settled on the fact that they’d both cast aside their artistic talents in lieu of focusing on science; it would seem she was wrong. But the annoyance of a fallacy was not so severe if it procured such a delightful result.

Rosalind’s lips pressed together in a smile she did not successfully contain. Usually open expressions invited many on the street to converse with her beyond simple pleasantries, but she allowed this. Her mood was excellent this morning, even if the weather was mildly unfavorable. The skies were clear, but she was ready to shake the winter chill that still lingered in the shade.

Tucked in the shadow of Magical Melodies, Sewell Art Supplies was rather modest across from Memorial Gardens, but a loyal customer base that was formed of both hobbyists and professional artists kept it busy enough. There were a few she kept an eye on occasionally, Mr. Pyle, Mr. Abbey, Mr. Whitechurch, and Mr. Pennell, though her notice of his work was Comstock’s doing, and he was quickly becoming Columbia’s resident artist.

She wrapped her gloved fingers around the ornate wrought iron door handle, the cold seeping through the leather, and entered the shop. The interior was small with three easels in the display windows, and the walls were stocked with brushes, containers of paint, and sticks of charcoal.

“Madame Lutece! Good morning.” The surprise at her visit was evident.

A large window was directly behind the counter, back-lighting whoever stood behind it and she frowned momentarily at the disadvantage. She navigated a few steps to a corner of the shop to correct it and see her greeter properly.

Donning a polite smile, Rosalind nodded. “Good morning, Mr. Sewell.”

“What can I help you with today?”

“Your finest sketchbook, sir,” she said, removing her gloves.

Mr. Sewell’s smile widened under his pale mustache and he gestured to the wall behind her. “These came in yesterday. I was worried the storms would delay them, but they arrived just in time.”

At eye level, reflecting the sunlight that came through the window, were five elegantly bound sketchbooks, and she reached for one.

“Beautiful aren’t they? I’ve got one ready as a gift for my granddaughter.”

She touched at the gold inlay on the cover and felt the velvet paper. “Yes.” The deep crimson leather was exquisite, the same color and similar enough design as the walls in their home. Robert would surely love this. She was already imagining the subtle change in his features when they softened.

“The tooth of the paper holds graphite and india ink extremely well, and takes to charcoal easily. Whichever your preferred medium.”

He only worked in graphite as far as she knew, but she'd like to see him work in charcoal, work with his hands, like when he tinkered with their machinery and his fingers were blackened by oil and metal. "I'd like to purchase some charcoal as well."

"Of course. I have some kits available that accommodate an artist's needs."

"Splendid. I'll take one in addition."

He moved to the opposite side of the store, a few steps really, and selected a neatly wrapped hessian cloth bundle. "Will that be everything, Madame?"

"For today, yes." She hoped to bring Robert along and have him choose whatever he wanted. Money was no longer a concern, and for him, she did not mind spending any amount. He was still in some ways, mindful of his previous situation in his universe, and very careful about arrears.

At the counter, Mr. Sewell untied the bundle and unrolled it, inspecting each utensil's condition with fine delicate hands. He listed each one for her in a very gentle tone, not condescending, reminding her together with his nearly white hair, of her old chemistry professor at Girton.

When he was pleased with everything, he rolled it back up. "Will this be a gift?"

"Yes," Rosalind said, and he took out a narrow pine box with a cover that slid closed to place the sketchbook and bundle in, which he then wrapped in brown paper and twine. She signed a check for payment and Mr. Sewell smiled at her departure.

"Thank you very much, Madame Lutece. You have a pleasant day."

"You too, Mr. Sewell."  She was feeling exceptionally good this morning now that she had completed her tasks, and most importantly, gotten something for Robert. For the first time in a very long while, she was looking forward to the holiday, to sharing it with someone she cared for. Even the ball the evening after next had her interest. It did not escape her of course that Robert was the catalyst-- he always was. Deep within herself she believed they were bound by strongest strands of existence. They were composed of the same elements, the same thoughts, so that her mind was linked to his and touched in the mirrors of their dreams before they could break the looking glass of reality. She thought longer on the metaphor. Perhaps she might consider the subject of dreams and thoughts and universes in a voxaphone later. 

Out on the street once more, she heard a lively melody coming from the music shop next door that pulled her out of her musings. It would seem the  _other_  Mr. Fink was in the midst of his own genius again. The tune was actually quite pleasant, though something more inclined towards Robert's tastes. If Albert decided to release it on record, as was becoming the case quite often, she'd buy one for him. And if there was no occasion for it, she'd make one up.

Still, as the melody grew fainter and she returned the short distance to her home, she considered the influx of ingenuity and production of both brothers. The connection was there, she just had to find it. It was frustrating that it eluded her for several months already.

“Good morning, Madame,” an apple vendor, Mr. Nettles, greeted as she passed, and the pomes he stood by were enticing enough this morning to move to the forefront of her mind.

“Could you part with three today, Mr. Nettles?”

“Always, Madame,” he said, selecting his three best fruit. “These bushels only survived the frost because of you and Mr. Lutece’s fine work.”

There had been no _direct_ intervention on their part, but she would take the credit for the change in weather, and she did so with a small smile.

“You are welcome to more, of course. No charge.” He handed the selection to her after he had wrapped them in a cloth.

“Three will suffice today. Thank you.” She bid him farewell, and she continued on her way.

The curve of the street brought her to the plaza outside her home and the familiarity of it returned her thoughts to Robert and the prized box she held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: Thank you for being patient. This was a difficult chapter to write.
> 
> Things to ponder:
> 
> -Ha, so our ginger scientists are huge nerds and finally got each other gifts. What do you think their reactions will be on Christmas?
> 
> -And finally! The Christmas ball will be next chapter. What will happen?
> 
> As always, chapter commentary is available at the fic's blogs: suspended-in-the-air.tumblr.com


	12. Cum Grano Salis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert debuts at the Christmas Ball.

_“With a grain of salt_ ”

 

* * *

 

**December 22, 1894, Saturday**

 

The clock hands were at the bottom of the hour, though he knew they had suspended there and were not any indication of the true hour. Still, he had consulted the time as often as she had kept adjusting his tie; this was now the fifth adjustment, by his count. Always an end askew, or the bow too large or some error only she could discern. There was of course, her lack of experience tying one compared to his, but no, her loops were sure and pulls even—there was nothing wrong in her execution.

“When our name is called at the entrance,” she said, as if privy to his thoughts, “Every eye will dissect you as any would an insect or devour a prime tenderloin.”

Her concentration remained on her work at the base of his throat, focused and stern.

“Well, dinner isn’t until _midnight_ , so I should hope I _sate_ them until then.”

Her eyes flicked to his and a quirk formed at the corner of her lips before returning to his tie. “You are sure to stir many appetites this evening, brothermine.”

“I’m _sure_ I’m to retort about the pitfalls of vanity at this moment, but there are worse sins.” He was tempted to say that every eye would be on _her_ , both man and woman, and they would find no blemish.

She glanced over him. “Are you ready, then?”

Robert peered at her. “ _Am_ I?”

Rosalind hummed her agreement and smoothed the lapels of his jacket for good measure. She had been in a noticeably agreeable mood since Thursday, even after the Authority’s holiday luncheon, not that that was terrible in any sense, but it was still in the company of their peers, so to speak, and he knew, of course, how her mood altered on Friday mornings. There was no separation between them this week.

Or was it her attire this marvelous evening that was altering _his_ mood? In her dress, she looked as a great Lady from a storybook, one that stopped all eye in a king’s court, or ruled a court of her own. As she slipped on her gloves, an elegant digit at a time, ensuring the material fit snug over her skin, it came to the forefront of his mind that he had the honor of escorting Columbia’s Greatest Mind. It was a wonder to him always, that she would extend a hand to join her.

“Shall I take your arm, or you take mine?” he asked.

She remained silent, but her lips spread slowly in a rare open smile, and she placed a hand at the crook of his elbow. “ _Shall we_ , Mr. Lutece?”

“Certainly, _Madame Lutece_.”

* * *

 

Comstock had arranged for his most esteemed guests to arrive by horse-drawn carriage at the gates of Comstock House, something Robert was not so inclined to enjoy. Most of the other departments at the Authority disregarded Zoology, but he payed close attention to the reports of horses frequently getting spooked or in one case, jumped from the city. If it had not been winter, he would have walked the short distance. From there, it was a ride in an exquisite gondola—velvet seating, gold trimmings— up to the main residence, under the watchful eyes of the Forefathers.

The lighting was dim, and many did not recognize he and Rosalind in formal attire, though of course, Robert believed their attention was focused on finding friends and acquaintances. Already there were several comments on dresses, on who they had spotted entering the front of the gondola. Apparently the Vanderwalls and Tellock-Bakers were in their company and not a mention or inclination of their long-standing feud was indicative so far this evening. He did not care to know the whole story, though a gentleman beside him thought it impressive to share with his lady the _entire_ affair, from land and slave holdings to plots in Memorial Garden.

When the wind gusted, the gondola swayed, and there was a chorus of feminine gasps and low groans followed by uneasy laughter. There was no action from Rosalind except the tightening of her fingers at the crook of his elbow, and he remembered that she had put a city in the clouds. She was reassuring _him_.

But why should he need be? He was reborn here, rearranged by her hands. He touched her fingers, deerskin on silk, to tell her.

The gondola stopped at the end of the line, and they all exited to walk the path to the front door. In a way, the herding brought to mind cattle and sheep as they collected in the foyer. Several servants and waitstaff greeted them, taking their coats, ladies at one corner of the room, gentlemen at the other. The brief separation was inconvenient , but soon she had taken his arm again.

A queue had formed at the entrance to the hall. All the respectable ladies and gentlemen of Columbia stood waiting for their name to echo throughout the walls and for an instant, old the attention of the guests. It was altogether narcissistic, the vanity worth the indignity of standing in line, but then again, the fleeting glory was nothing to him as he removed the invitation from his breast pocket and offered it to the valet.

**Mister and Madame Lutece.**

Their name resonated though the main hall, and Robert felt every eye. All at once, he felt like a young lady at her debutante, the gaze of the curious and interested appraising him. His eye began to throb, and he looked to Rosalind instead of the crowd. Like a flame-haired virgin queen, she surveyed them as she would her subjects, brow perked, no one person worthy of her attention, until she turned fully to peer at his face and smile. She urged him into the fray, directing him towards the last hurdle; the host and hostess.

Even in his best suit, Comstock still looked, to him at least, belligerent; unkempt. He _was_ not of course, hair slicked, ivory buttons, but Robert saw it in the part of his hair, the breadth of his stance, the hardness of his eyes. It was not difficult to conjure up his other unshaven drunkard self.

“Very glad you could join us,” Comstock enthused. He offered his hand to Robert first, allowing Rosalind to glance at him expectantly.`

He shook his hand. “Delighted.” It was all pretense of course. There were still guests near them, hoping to catch glimpse of what the important founders of the city had to say. Yes, there would be no discussing _work_ between the three of them.

Robert moved to greet Lady Comstock. She smiled at him, not too wide, but a set expression that sat about her face in required pleasantry. She looked ill to his eyes, though it could have been the tones of her dress reflecting back onto her pale skin. Comstock shook Rosalind’s hand with two of his own—very patriarchal, almost genial and the delicate grip that had his hand transformed into a vise. 

Then she released his hand  as if she'd been burned. "We hope you enjoy yourselves this evening," she nearly seethed, a chill rivaling the snow outside so blatantly apparent.

Rosalind did not extend her hand, nor did Lady Comstock. 

The situation was not tense— _tense_  would require both parties to appear threatening— but Robert could perceive no immediate threat or reasoning behind the sudden change in demeanor. Still, he was a third party in all this and ignored the slight.

"Thank you. We look forward to it," he said, and they moved away from the entrance.

"Are you always so charming even in the midst of a quarrel?" Rosalind asked once they had walked a short distance.

He smirked. "When the occasion calls for it," he said, then added. "When I want Columbia's Greatest Mind to enjoy her evening."

She was immensely pleased with his answer, squeezing his arm as she smiled broadly. " _Our_  evening."

To the west of the Main hall was the ballroom, where a majority of the guests stood conversing and enjoying light refreshments, but opposite that was the grand dining room, closed off but still full of movement and activity as the waitstaff prepped it.

"I wonder who we'll be seated with."

"God knows, but I do hope it's someone tolerable—"

"You've made it!"

Before they even turned around, they recognized the enthusiasm, the familiarity.

Fink shook both their hands equally. He was impeccable, not even a hair of his mustache out of place."It's been an  _age_. How have you been? Busy, I'm sure."

Robert let Rosalind answer. She was always so careful around Fink, a habit he was picking up, but still unpracticed enough to slip on occasion.

“Always. As have you." 

A broad smile. "The last push before the holidays, " he said. "But enough of _that_. Let's eat, drink, and be merry."

Robert had an exceedingly strong feeling that Fink's modesty was a direct result of greeting them, loudly, publicly, at the entrance. Even now, he felt the attention and interest of the guests to still be on them. Were they _that_ intriguing?

Fink led them into the ballroom, greeting strategic attendees. J.J. Astor, socialite, Saltonstall, rising politician, Francis Cockrell, visiting Missouri Senator, the list went on.

Truly a year earlier he would have scoffed if he were told of the wealth of attention he was attracting; the established names, the new money, the rising stars. Intrigue in the stead of hushed chatter. They did not stop for talk, slowing only for brisk conversation. Those who were not acknowledged glanced at them longingly, the way one’s face turned when they passed the bakery or confectionery.

Robert did not altogether mind, in fact, he thought he might _enjoy_ that Fink paraded them, decided they were worthy of his time—dearly precious to the man. They knew him socially and professionally, in the thinnest sense of the word, but he did not think he would prefer any other guest in attendance, for he did not _know_ anyone else. With Fink, he could gauge his reactions, related his interest, for the most part. He glanced at Rosalind to see if she thought the same, and her placid expression conveyed the same familiarity. Perhaps because Fink viewed her as an equal, more or less, in that odd way of his he seemed to regard people he thought interesting.

Yes, he was rather pleased with Fink’s treatment of Rosalind. Even now, he was at her side opposite him, engaging with her, quite the opposite he had in mind of his behavior.  No chat of the weather or her evening; they conversed on a topic they had already spoken about at length, picking up as if it had never ended months ago.

“—I agree, it has been an obstacle that’s gone unsolved, since before launch. One I plan to tackle when I’ve got the time for it.”

“On the list of priorities for this city,” Rosalind pointed out, “It’s not terribly important as of yet.”

“But it _will_ be. People will be bored of parks, yearn for hikes, for fishing. Even _birds_ land to play.”

Rosalind pursed her lips, ready to reply in begrudging agreement. "After a beach, there'll be a fair, and soon a circus. Heaven knows how a pachyderm will handle the altitude. We're still sorting out this business with horses.”

"Oh a dreadful mess, not to mention the cleanup-"

"Yes, I recall the incident. It is not something one easily forgets."

"No it isn't. My apologies. I am somewhat pleased however with Easter's preliminary suggestions."

"-Jeremiah!"

Of the three of them, Robert was the only one to cast glance at the caller. When he had looked back, Fink's smile fell for the briefest of moments beneath the curl of his mustache, jaw ticking in irritation for having been interrupted, and suddenly it vanished as he turned around to greet his acquaintance. In the same expanse, Rosalind had witnessed the reaction and seemed pleased with it, daring a corner of her mouth to rise.

"Theodore!" Fink was all at once dashing and genial again.  "How are you?"

"Very well, my friend. Very well."

Their insinuator stood a head shorter than Fink, indeed, a head and a half than himself, as tall as he was round. He drew to mind the image of a clock sitting on a mantle, exceedingly ornate, but ultimately easy to overlook in a bustling room. A young woman, certainly his daughter and none other for they shared the same round face, clung to his arm.

“Splendid. I have no doubt your Yuletide celebration is going well."

"Surely as well as yours," Theodore said, rather eagerly, Robert thought. "Are you enjoying your evening Madame?"

"As well as you are," she answered straight faced and Robert tried his utmost not to smirk. He thought he might have seen the corner of Fink's mustache perk.

Whether her lighthearted cheek was realized or not, Theodore smiled, further rounding his features. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I am Theodore Olivere III."

He extended his hand to her and she gave the barest of smiles, one that could have been mistaken for meekness but he knew otherwise. "Of course."

He turned to him. "And you must be the illusive Mr. Lutece. You are certainly quite the topic this evening." 

At that, Robert glanced briefly at Rosalind and she perked an eyebrow at him of her prediction.

"Good things, I hope," he laughed lightly. "Are you a jeweler, Mr Olivere?" Never in his life had he met the man but by instinct he felt he knew the man's métier, accompanied by feelings of mild annoyance. Rosalind deduced its source, and the barest hint of concern formed on her face.

The prelude made Olivere beam. "I deal in the  _business_  of jewelry, yes. My grandfather was a jeweler and he set his sights on a proper source. _I_ provide only the finest gems for the finest of people."

"Yes, you'll find some Olivere rubies in my clocks," Fink added. "The finest I've seen this side of the Atlantic."

"Oh, You flatter me, Jeremiah. _Sapphire_ s are the Olivere pride, but I've yet to find any gem that could match my dear Marie's eyes. " At this, he patted his daughter’s arm endearingly, indeed just properly acknowledged her at all since he'd made himself known. Robert had felt her interested gaze since she and her father had approached and he finally met it politely when she offered her hand. Something of the attention disinterested him; he felt bored, haughty, as if she were in comparison to something unattainable.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said, conscious of how empty her eager handshake left him.

"And yours, Mr. Lutece."

Did he perceive Rosalind thinning her lips? He quite rather liked that she did. Did Fink do the same?

"Do you enjoy gems, Madame?"

"Pardon?" Rosalind asked, but her tone, he knew, was as if she was insulted, for he knew she cared not for jewelry of any sort.

"Have you an inclination for gems? I dare say sapphires would bring out the blue in your eyes." 

The color of her eyes intensified along with her stare. Robert, too found offense with the comment perhaps meant to compliment. Since Olivere had just uplifted his daughter's uniqueness, he had also removed Rosalind's, and the integrity of Miss Olivere’s character aside, she was in no way equal to Columbia's Greatest Mind.

"I've yet to find scientific value for them, but when I do, you shall be the first to know."

"Ah, of course, while we are on that matter," Fink deftly maneuvered, "Dreadful of me to talk business during a time of leisure, but I simply  _must_  have your finest selection of rubies by the next month."

"Rubies?" Olivere exclaimed. "Of course, my friend." Apparently, it seemed he shared all the attention span of a magpie. "The same specifications?"

"Oh yes, and then some."

"Do tell," Olivere said, eager for the challenge.

“In addition to the original diameter, the rubies will have diameters one and two times larger than the shaft. The depth will remain the same on all of them.”

“Ah-”

“And if you can spare it, I’ve drawn more calculations that show promise of efficiency.”

“Of course-”

“My associate, Flambeau has all the details. Ah, here he comes. Would you care for a drink?”

“Yes!” Olivere exclaimed.

Rosalind visibly smiled. When Fink’s attention was not on them, it was amusing to see just how adept he was at getting his way. Indeed, Flambeau must have been following closely behind them, ready to assist his employer for this very situation. He had procured drinks for all of them. Robert reached for one but saw Rosalind declined and he thought better of it.

"What is your profession, Mr. Lutece?"

“Hrmm?” he said. He had hoped to catch more of Fink’s calculated exit. “Oh, forgive me. _Science_ , Miss Olivere. As is Rosalind’s.”

The young lady smiled politely at Rosalind as if wondering why that was of any importance. Rosalind in turn had the expression she rarely did when she wanted him to speak. “Erm, particularly, physics,” he continued.

“Papa always mentions you are responsible for the city.”

“Responsible? Yes, in the way that an heir is to a title and estate, but no, I must attribute creation and vision to Rosalind.”

“How—peculiar.”

"Quite." Rosalind responded. 

"But no doubt, there is much else.”

Robert glanced at Rosalind, who continued her passive expression.

"Of course, but you understand it has not been made privy as of yet. We are dearly protective of our work—"

"-Ah Robert, Madame," Fink interjected. "Miss Olivere, might I converse with them a moment?"

"Certainly, Mr.Fink."

Robert bowed his leave to her, and Fink whisked them away once more into the sea of guests. This time, there was less show and he wondered where exactly Fink was taking them.

"Is your brother in attendance this evening?" From his left he could feel Rosalind’s inquisitive stare.

Fink seemed extremely pleased with the question. "He most certainly is.” They walked further until they were near the orchestra and Robert saw Albert’s wife.

“Ruth, my dear!” Fink called out.

“Oh Jem, you just missed him!” Ruth said, gesturing to her husband setting up amongst the musicians.

“Just my luck,” he grumbled. “Well,” he said, turning to them. “I had hoped you’d meet him before he began. You have of course, met Al’s lovely Ruth.”

“Always a pleasure,” Robert nodded.

“Do we have the pleasure of another Magical Melody this evening?” Rosalind asked.

It was his turn to glance sidelong at her as he couldn’t place whether her interest was from the music itself or its origin.

“We _do._ I hear you two are quite the music connoisseurs."

"We  _are_." she replied coyly.

Fink hummed, his mustache skewing with his amused smirk.

"Ladies and Gentlemen,” Albert started, “I hope you are all enjoying your evening.” On stage, he looked as refined and polished as his brother, nothing askew, beaming in the spotlight. “Many thanks to the Columbia Orchestra. Truly, only angels are your competition up here." Here there was laughter, and he continued. "This piece I am to debut is something I think we all, as Columbians, will enjoy, especially as we celebrate the holidays. May I present: _Wonderful Christmastime_."

The orchestra began a light upbeat melody that was steady as the choir joined in. 

_"The moon is right, the city's up_

_We're here tonight, and that's enough._

_Simply having a wonderful Christmastime."_

Another stanza followed and they entered a cheerful bridge with bells.

_"The word is out, about the town._

_To lift a glass, ah don't look down."_

" _Simply having a wonder Christmastime_." By the third chorus, the guests had caught on and the hall filled with laughter and applause as the song ended. 

Rosalind clapped, raising an amused eyebrow. On her left, the Fink's were understandably beaming at the forefront of accolade. Albert attempted to make his way to them, and likewise, Fink and Ruth attempted to make towards him, but guests made to converse and congratulate, and soon they were all at once each speaking to a different guest. They found themselves caught up with William Arthurton, esteemed socialite, known for his style of dress more than his wealth and family name. He smiled, broadly, perfect teeth in a perfect smile. Impeccably dressed.

“Madame! You look absolutely wonderful this evening. What are your thoughts on this splendid piece?”

“I think it rather festive, Mr. Arthurton, what of you?” 

Robert detected a hint a interest from her. Rare, indeed.

“Oh festive, definitely, and perhaps a bit  _nonsensical_."

"Yes, and still quite fitting," Robert interjected, quite forgetting he had not been addressed. The gentleman had quite the persona.

"Indeed!" Arthurton directed his smile at him and Robert found himself charmed by the piercing gaze and dark features. How similar and how different than Fink's. "I don't believe we've been introduced; William."

"Ah, of course, Mr. Arthurton, this is my brother, Robert."

"Splendid! I can see why the good Madame should decline my hand for a much younger, more  _handsome_  gentleman."

"Er," Suddenly, he had forgotten his manners and he looked to Rosalind as his first reaction. She had the same pleased intrigue about her face as earlier. "A pleasure to meet you."

Arthurton's smile widened. "The pleasure is mine. Might you share the same métier as your sister? I've always been so enthralled with her work. A travesty I could not witness its progress."

"I do. Her work truly is remarkable."

" _Our_  work," Rosalind corrected, but she was beaming. "And we've only just begun. How is your evening?"

"Marvelous, madame. I'm amongst friends; I hope to be red in the face before dinner." He laughed, and Rosalind had that peculiar quirk about her lips again.

"I'm sure."

"Hrmm." Arthurton grinned, peering quickly to something behind them. "Well, I should let you enjoy your evening. Perhaps I might have the pleasure of a dance later if you were so inclined, Madame." 

"Perhaps." She said coyly, and that seemed to amuse him as if he already knew the answer.

"Robert, it truly was a pleasure to meet you. Perhaps we might all meet for lunch sometime in the future." He shook both their hands and departed.

As they observed him navigate the crowd to another gentleman that Robert did not recognize, he inclined towards her ear. "An acquaintance of ours?" As with most people Rosalind was acquainted with, there was a familiarity that lingered at the forefront of his mind from her memories. William Arthurton had one of the strongest influences that he'd ever experienced, second only to Comstock. 

"Yes," she said. "In a way...a suitor."

"Oh? I thought we had none of that."

"Only with his funding. In the early days, he had answered my inquiries, expressed interest in it as well. I found him to be quite progressive in every way, as did he in myself. We were set to work out our financial business when he had to unfortunately place them on hold— legal matters that were frivolous but unfortunately had to be addressed. By the time he had sorted, Comstock had proposed such a grander offer I could not refuse at the time."

"Do you imagine he might—"

" —Might have made a better patron?" She pulled closer to him, her voice thoughtful, "Oh I quite believe so. More freedom, more challenges. He would not be so unaccepting of us as Comstock. Thrilled even. I dare to think that he might be more vain than I."

That she had not gone on about him, placated him. But…he was the first man Rosalind had shown any sort of genuine interest in. "Had I not crossed over, would you have accepted his hand tonight?"

The corner of her mouth quirked. "Do I detect jealousy?"

He declined, hoping he might downplay his emotion. _Was_ he jealous?

"There is no need. Mr. Arthurton has certain  _proclivities_  that don't involve women."

"Well." He stated simply. He was quite certain William Arthurton, teeth so straight and jawline so strong, was sure to easily attract attention from both women and men."He is  _quite_  the gentleman."

"He is." She said plainly, and glanced sidelong at him. "And he did call you handsome." She stared a moment longer. "I must agree with him."

He could not stop the rush of heat that spread to his face and ears at both comments.

Rosalind took pleasure in it, smiling once more.

“You are enjoying this,” he muttered.

“I enjoy _you_.” She tugged at his arm. "Come, let us continue with our evening. Fink approaches."

"Do forgive me," he said, when he had drawn near. "I dare say I've stolen you for enough of the evening. We'll talk more at dinner?"

"Of course," Rosalind answered.

When he had left them again, he asked, "You think he had a hand in that arrangement?"

"Oh I don't doubt it."

Robert laughed. This time, Rosalind steered them around, to no certain point in the room, but they veered from guests he knew had quite different perspectives on life than they did. The mood of the room was that most people were acquainted or knew of those that were deemed important. They were of the latter, and now, he was starting to feel the attention, the gaze, a nuisance. Guests smiled at them, hoping perhaps one of them might break etiquette or someone within their group would introduce them to Columbia's Greatest Mind.

"Does no one catch your interest, dear brother?" she asked, as if she could sense his thoughts.

"Would you think unkindly of me if I preferred to keep to myself?"

"Birds of a feather, you and I."

“We two are to ourselves a crowd.”

"Quite."

They were within earshot of a small group and they overheard a gentleman accost his son. “Now, now,” he said. “I’m sure Mr. Lannon wouldn’t want to hear about that— ”

At the mention of Lannon’s name, slight concern briefly displayed across her face. He moved to steer themselves away but quickly enough they were greeted once again.

“Mr. Lutece! Madame!”

Together they faced their caller, his face immediately familiar.

“Mr. Sinclair,” Robert greeted. “How are you?| He was among the members of his family; his wife, Leander, Percy, and a younger son. In their company was Harold Field, his wife, a gentleman he was unfamiliar with, and another he knew, from Rosalind’s descriptions to be Franklin Lannon.”  
  
“Splendid. Yourselves?” He sensed Rosalind would have him answer again. She eyed the rest of the group warily.

“The very same.”

“I do believe you’ve met my family briefly the last time we met. Madame Lutece, this is my wife, Anthea.”

Anthea Sinclair was a woman who possessed a certain poise that could have only come from years of governesses and wealth. Still, there was warmth in her smile and weight to her handshake.

“My, sons, you know, Percy and Leander, and Gabriel.” The youngest Sinclair resembled his mother the most, fairest of hair, though still rather dark. His eyes were the brightness of youth; inquisitive and observing.

“And Perrin Baudelaire, a colleague and friend of mine at the University, professor of Biology.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” Baudelaire greeted warmly. He looked to be an odd choice of company for Mr. Sinclair, facial hair full and white, in contrast to the younger man’s trimmed face. Short and overweight next to the tall, slender Sinclair.

Harold they knew of course from the Authority, and he introduced his wife, Yvette. She offered her hand delicately. 

"Madame," Lannon greeted and he and Rosalind shared a loaded glance. 

"Mr. Lannon," she said evenly,  _almost_  a warning.

What he knew of their relationship came from her short comments and valid frustrations.  Often there were days she would return from the Authority furious and fuming. The man was combative, always challenging  her at every move, and he  _knew_  it was because of her sex. It bristled him even on the best of days that she still encountered such contempt. When he had made it known to her, she had been both appreciative and disapproving.

Lannon turned to him. "You must be Robert. A pity we haven't met  _properly_."

“Ah yes, no better time, then.” Robert shook his hand, despite his preconception, taking measure of the man. As a scientist he quantified and assigned value, from his coppery complexion to his hair, more red than his. Perhaps there was Irish in his blood— not that it mattered to him, but if it was indicative of his behavior, his contentiousness, it could clue in to handling him.

Mr. Sinclair continued. “I was just telling everyone about your assistance a few weeks ago.”

“Oh yes, dreadful business," Field added. "Our district was affected.  Couldn't sleep for nearly two days! The only soul to catch a wink was the baby. Slept through the whole ordeal, didn't she, dear?" he asked his wife, who nodded. "Constance has adapted to the city faster than all of us."

“How interesting,” Rosalind started, honing in on the topic. Her interest lay sporadically in the acclimation of citizens to higher altitude, primarily in children and the elderly—the only interest she had in them. “Children seem to take more quickly to the air. I’ve been in discussion with Dr. Pelletier about a formal committee about that subject. Your daughter was the youngest child when the city lifted. Surely if you allowed the Authority to take notes on her growth and progress, we might have a standard all children are compared to.”

"So she would be the model for other children in Columbia?" Yvette asked.

"In this, yes," Rosalind answered, much to Mrs. Field's pleasure, and Robert did his best to keep his face straight. Oh, how she got her way with things.

“Well, that sounds excellent. No doubt a budget will be involved.”

Baudelaire interjected, “Do keep me updated. The data would prove well in an academic setting.”

“Indeed.”

“Splendid,” Lannon added. “The good Madame is always taking steps to ensure our safety.”

There were nods and hums of agreement between them.

Mrs. Sinclair said to Mrs. Field, “And how are your other daughters fairing? Temperance?” and the group broke into several smaller conversations.

Harold and Lannon conversed with Rosalind, perhaps about the very subject in discussion, but Mr. Sinclair pursued commentary on the incident of the reactors and the city’s current state for the duration of the winter and the foreseeable future. Apparently, there was minor concern—among the citizens outside of the scientific community, that the issue might appear again next winter.

Robert was very quick to quell such concern, especially to Mr. Sinclair, since his son was very well the reason the city faired as it did, that they celebrated as they did tonight.

“Of course, certainly. I am of the same mind. I was merely conveying to you the thoughts of some other citizens, despite evidence to the contrary.”

“The contrary being, of course, that our city would be several feet lower and defunct,” he added, some of his annoyance seeping through. “But there’s no use in thinking what might be.”

“What might have been.”

“Pardon?”

Mr. Sinclair turned up his chin ever so slightly. “What might have been. _The subjunctive_.”

His lip quirked and Leander must have noticed for he interjected, “—Mr. Lutece, I wanted to thank you again personally for considering my work.”

Grateful for the interruption, he answered, “How are you handling work now?” It was refreshing to finally discuss alternatives to the project beyond the data they officially received.

“Very well. I’m enjoying the challenge.” Both Mr. Sinclair and Baudelaire looked pleased.

“One of my best students,” Baudelaire said.

From there, their conversations shifted again. Several more people mixed with their group; wives of Founders, men from the Authority, even from the working district, men in good standing, but regardless, not likely to be invited often as dinner guests for social reasons. They were all interesting for the most part, though he and Rosalind had remained separated. She had been swept up into deep conversation by members of the Authority. She  spoke now with Harold Field, Lannon, and Dr. Pelletier, and how he wished to be part of the discussion. It seems Rosalind set the theme for the evening. Here and there he was catching flickers of comments and information. There was talk of vitality, of children’s improved behavior, of maids and doormen not taking to the air well. To be fair, it was a topic that needed to be studied at great length, and he shared Rosalind’s thoughts that not enough had been done before liftoff and in the year and a half since.

He looked to her, spotting her mild interest in her conversation from across the short distance. She found his eyes through the crowd and gave the smallest of smiles.

“Mr. Lutece,” Baudelaire started, drawing his attention once more. They had gone on at length about the city’s necessary shift from animals—horse drawn carriages and the like— to industrial means, and the consequent innovation of such things. Robert was glad he shared his sentiment of Columbia’s potential. “I’m unsure if I’m going about this in the right fashion.”

Robert inclined his head to show his consideration, as Rosalind might do.

“I’d like to put in a formal request about incorporating a curriculum that benefits the Authority.”

“What might this curriculum entail?”

“It would be something of the effect of Madame Lutece’s committee and the taking to a buoyant lifestyle. My subject of study however would be in animals; frogs, pigs, birds, perhaps others, to develop a discourse on evolution..er.. _adapation_. At the very least, we’d have charts of a biological sense to fall upon.”

“Well, I’d say that’s a very sound presentation. Of course, you understand I must be forthright and disclose that I have no insight or influence into the Authority’s approvals.”

“Certainly. Certainly. I had hoped I might have _your_ insight and Madame Lutece’s perhaps if should could spare her time. I’d appreciate your thoughts on this more.. _secular_ course of study and if it might have gravity on a decision.”

Ah, he understood now: Baudelaire was atheistic. He would stand against much opposition in the primarily Fundamental Authority. “I understand. How should I go about this?” He didn’t want to speak on Rosalind’s behalf, but he was certain she would entertain the notion as it fell within her current interests. “I will present it to her, but I cannot speak for Rosalind. Would you care to meet for lunch and go over your proposal?”

Baudelaire was ecstatic. “ I would greatly appreciate it, sir! Thank you very much. I’ll have everything prepared. When shall we meet?”

He found his eyes drifting again to her location. “Friday week,” he said. “If that suits you. New Eden.”

“It does.”

Robert smiled and nodded. “Very well. I look forward to it. If you’ll excuse me.”

He worked his way to Rosalind. She was not too far from him, though in this room, the separation felt stifling. _Unbearable_ even, dramatic as that sounded. As he approached, he became privy to the discussion, hearing Francis Pinchot, another of their peers. “—Science brings us closer to heaven. We are nearly halfway there.”

Rosalind looked skeptical. “I seem to recall the last time humanity tried to reach God by their own means.”

Yes. Pinchot easily irritated her. Always so unnecessarily eager and sensational, she would say.

Dr. Pellitier gave an even laugh. “Madame Lutece is right. I caution your choice in words, Francis, but it is a Marvel we must continue to monitor closely.”

“There is still much to build, I hope,” Lannon jested, “Lest I join Smith in Zoology. I can build you a cart that will make a mule the most efficient with its workload, but I couldn’t tell you the front end of the beast from the back.”

Laughter spread amongst the group, though Rosalind looked only vaguely amused, and he suspected it was not directed at the joke but at something else entirely.

“Oh Robert, do join us,” Lannon said, spotting him.

He took his spot next to Rosalind, slipping comfortably at her side, and the night pressed on.

* * *

 

It was as they would in their home, their own records, their own melody, their own selves.

When Comstock had invited all for a round of dancing, Robert thought she would forego it. Of all the ladies in attendance, her position was most unusual. She was a woman of great importance and popularity, but also on the same standing as a gentleman, more or less. There were rules of etiquette that no longer applied to her. He too, was unsure of what she might want or frown upon in this social setting. She could shape the rules now. So he was surprised when she had led him to the floor, lined them to begin a set, and they fell into their rhythm.

Perhaps none had thought she would dance this evening, for he still felt many eyes on them. How they must have looked! He had not danced socially in quite some time. The steps came effortlessly though; his practice had never faltered. After Rosalind had discovered music soothed him, mended him, their first dance was not long after. A stalemate more than anything, but she had returned a bloody fool to a gentleman again, and they moved like water.

“Do you see all the women who wish to make your acquaintance?” Rosalind started, quite accustomed to discussion in the midst of steps and turns.

Truthfully he had not given then much consideration. He glanced at the crowd. “Do they, now?”

She lifted her chin up, so that she might see over his shoulder. “You may dance with them if you please.”

“I only see one.” Regrettably, he had only two sets in which he could dance with her.

For a moment she turned her head slightly to gauge his expression and the corner of his mouth lifted at her brief drop in composure. She rolled her eyes, resuming her fixation over his shoulder.

He continued with her, pleased with himself, wondering if they would ever give up an opportunity to dance. Was there a universe in which they didn’t? Of course there was. He mourned for his counterparts that did not, could not participate in this expression of unity.

All too quickly, the music ended and he bowed to her, her face impassive, but gaze full of infinite possibilities. He was paralyzed by it, her gravity. In the midst of these pairings, these couplings, he was drawn to her; bound, a particle held by an atom, suspended in time.

There was a tap at his shoulder, a gentleman seeking to intervene.

Rosalind raised an eyebrow; it was Fink.

“May I?”

She looked to decline, but she offered her hand to him. Fink in turn, bowed to him.

A spark welled in him., one that would make Rosalind scoff at his predictability. Ever the gentleman however, he gave his best smile, his best bow, and stepped off the floor.

When the swirling, bustling, continued, however, he felt as if he had forcefully, involuntarily, been thrust back into his own universe, peering into this one like some voyeur, as he had once been. His left eye began to throb, and he sought to quickly remove himself from the displacement and the hopeful eyes of women seeking to garner his attention. He followed some of the other guests who had taken a break from dancing into the refreshments room.

The mood here was quite different, much more subdued, and he was grateful for the reprieve. He fell into the queue for beverages, selecting the strongest one. Mint julep was hardly one of his favorites, but it would serve its purpose. As he drew himself a glass from the large serving bowl, he glanced up at the guest across from also serving herself, feeling his mood lifting when he recognized her.

“Enjoying your evening?”

Gwen looked up, smiling herself. “Very much. And you?”

“I am.”

“And how is Madame Lutece? I saw her earlier in the hall.”

Having gotten both their drinks, he gestured for them to continue their conversation away from the table. “I do believe she is enjoying herself. Though, she does enjoy her privacy, however…” he tried searching for her and Fink across the distance briefly before continuing, “The public’s fascination with her can become a bit _much_ at times.” He drank deeply from his mint julep.

“I imagine that must be exhausting.”

“Ah, excuse me,” Robert added, thinking perhaps he might have made his peakiness obvious. “I mean perhaps that people tend to forget that we are going about our lives as well as they are.”

“I understand. I am still not so used to my family being quite known here.” Gwen finished her drink. “I must leave you unfortunately, Mr. Lutece. I’m lined up for another dance.”

“I apologize. Don’t let me keep you.”

“I’ll see you at dinner,” She said and returned to the dancing hall, leaving him to wonder more about the seating arrangement for dinner. So they were with Fink and the Marlowes it seemed. Not a terrible outcome in the slightest. As long as they weren’t seated with guests they would get along poorly with, he was content. In the refreshment’s hall, he was suddenly aware of how little he knew these people. To be quite honest with himself, he didn’t fully _care_ to know them. He no longer needed funding or required necessary social connections—they came to _him._ But then again, he wondered if this was now Rosalind’s thoughts influencing his, and he stopped himself right there before his dissonance returned. Robert thought he might get another drink to banish it further and on the thought of Rosalind, get her a beverage as well. She had more of a palette for stringent potables.

At the table once more, he set about procuring drinks for Rosalind and himself. Perhaps they might return back to the main hall and continue conversing with guests. Here, guests were more inclined to gossip. He could overhear several conversations.

“Have you heard that Mrs. Harris and the much _younger_ Mr. Whitechurch are carrying on an intrigue?”

“The artist?”

“The very same.”

“Wasn’t she was sitting for a portrait?”

“That is the _front_. My maid confided in me that her sister, the maid at Emporia Towers, walked in to find Mrs. Harris in the _nude._ ”

“Unthinkable!”

He tuned it out. Perhaps she might prefer some wine? She was dancing with Fink, after all. Her mood was bound to be affected. He moved towards the end of the table.

“They are a strange sort…”

“—How so?”

“My father spoke to them earlier and in perfect sequence, they inclined their heads at the same time as if they were one person. How very odd!”

Robert found himself inclining his own head to listen.

“Yes. I have two cousins—once removed, mind you, but they are the oddest of pairs. Never leaving each other’s company, dressing the same, smiling in sync as if they were some odd automaton or clock. But they were identical. A gentleman and a lady, however?”

He paused. They were speaking of he and Rosalind.

“Peculiar.”

“Indeed.”

The other voice continued, lower.

“They are rather _close_ , don't you think?"

“If you were so inclined, see how she holds him, touches him. I’ve not touched my brother in that manner since I was nine.”

“Perhaps it’s a twin—how do you say it? One of those, science _enigmas.”_

“ _Science enigmas_? Really, Margaret, you come across the most bizarre of literature.”

“I’ve _heard_ , in some foreign lands, the natives believe twins have… _relations_ in the womb.”

A noise of disgust. “Absolutely barbaric!”

“Well, it is the belief of _natives_ —”

Yes, he was _quite through_ with his eavesdropping. He gathered his drinks and quickly moved to return to the hall, bumping into a guest. “Oh I’m sorry!” he apologized, the same time as the young man.

“Mr. Lutece!?” the guest exclaimed, and he saw that it was Leander. Beyond him, there came the gasps of two women near the table at his identity.

“My deepest apologies. I was heading to—” He rubbed his hand nervously. “You were just speaking with Miss Marlowe earlier? Could you tell me perhaps which direction she was headed?”

Robert recovered quickly. “She returned to the dance hall.”

“Good. Erm, thank you. Again, terribly sorry,” Leander said, flittering away.

“Not a problem.” He watched him head in that direction. Only one thing could make a young man foam and fluster after a woman, and he smiled knowingly as he followed.

When he reached the doorway, he found Rosalind in the hallway, back to the open corridor. It lowered his mood again as he remembered the gossip he’d just heard. It chilled him that she was so vulnerable in that position, alone, exposed to gossip and scandal mongers.

She seemed to sense when he drew near and she turned to face him. “Good, there you are.”

He handed her a drink. “Oh splendid,” she said and immediately downed all of it.. She took his arm, pulling him. “Back into refreshments.”

“I’d rather not,” he said, not moving, and she glared at his immobility. “I overheard some talk about us,” he explained quietly, maintaining a distance he thought to be more appropriate, but still she leaned in close to hear him.

“Oh, our every glance weighed and measured!” she whispered harshly when she had heard. “Yes, yes, the nonsense of useless hens,” she dismissed. When he looked at her seriously, she peered at him the same, raising her eyebrow. “ _Really_ , Robert, I have been dissected by men at the highest level of academia. Gossip of aging women preoccupied with needlework and the weather is hardly damaging on any level. Or as creative. _Come_ ,” she urged, and he finally budged. “I will not dance again this evening. And if I’m honest, every man pales in comparison to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1+ years since last chapter's posting :S
> 
> As always, there is commentary pertaining to the Chapter at Suspended-in-the-air(dot)tumblr(dot)com


	13. Ad nauseum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosalind must endure dinner with her pre-selected guests.

 

_“To the point of nausea”_

 

* * *

 

Her mother instilled in her that _dinner_ was the most important hour of the day. Debatable; she was in disagreement. What of afternoon tea, evensong, compline? Not that she practiced much of prayer presently, but she respected those that stuck to routine and dedicated part of their day to purpose. Dinner, if one ignored the irony of people who thought themselves civilized devouring animals killed for their nourishment, was a social event that was second only to parties in her mind. There was less devotion to the meal and more to idle chatter. Nothing substantial ever came of talk at the dining table, but the _art_ of culinary, the _science_ of cuisine, held her interest. There existed a kind  of chemistry in the preparation, a talent blended with the careful arrangement of colors on an artists palette. The irony, truly, was that aristocracy turned its nose up whilst simultaneously being enamored by it.

"No escort?" Robert asked, entirely unserious. 

Rosalind gave an amused smile as they navigated the tables. The shuffling of guests reminded her of livestock. "Perhaps our intrigue has waned?"

No sooner had the words left her when she was greeted with ‘Good evening Madame Lutece.’

She could sense Robert's own amusement even as he turned his head slightly to utter under his breath, ”perhaps not."

"So," she redirected, "Do you think Comstock would keep us close at hand or has the Blessed Lady banished me to the edge of the kingdom?" She meant it in jest, but of course, she did not take much care into whatever issue Lady Comstock had with her. "Bear in mind, we are seated with _Fink,_ so that will play a factor." God knows that man thrived on attention; she searched for his sharp face so that they might find their table already. 

"Have you not found your table yet, Mr. Lutece? Why, they're all nearly filled! Perhaps we might be seated together."

Robert looked to have lost his composure for a second when Mrs. Ashton came upside him and all but bellowed into his ear. Rosalind had half a mind to comment, but a phrase her mother would have said came unbidden to the forefront of her mind and she thought better of it.

"Er, Mrs. Ashton," Robert gathered, "Good evening. We're actually on our way at this moment. Perhaps one of the valets could assist you?"

Mrs. Ashton waved her hand. "Oh that's quite alright."

When she had left, quite unceremoniously, Rosalind inclined her head ever so slightly. "Ever the gentleman."

"What _appetites_ are we serving tonight?"

She turned to look at him, thoroughly surprised of his cheek. And amused.

"She is a terrible gossip and utterly saccharine—if you prefer _mutton_. "

"Hrmm." He was silent for a moment, and she thought he might see her criticism as puerile, but then he so casually leaned the slightest and spoke from the corner of his mouth, "I'd say mutton dressed as lamb."

"You've not even met her until this evening."

" _You_ have."

"Hrmph." Mrs. Ashton's tastes were well known. She'd wear her best dress even if the occasion didn't call for it. The gossip these days was that her behavior came after the death of her younger husband. If she recalled, he was sickly, didn't quite take to the air. Asthma. A pity the woman so desperately sought the protection of a man, that society insisted she needed it for survival. She'd heard she was actually quite musically inclined. What talents and scholars might arise if woman were sought as equals and professionals, independent of male interference?

She glanced sidelong at him for a moment. His attitude towards Mrs. Ashton's was directly influenced by her passing thoughts. Of course, how could she ever have known her mind would force into his? But there was something lost when he was not his usual self, his charming optimism to her pessimism. She’d have to keep an eye on that.

He touched her arm, "Ah, there." Robert gestured to a table five units down where they could see Fink and the other guests they would be dining with.

"At least we are not with Comstock."

"That is always a good thing."

She considered the statement however, as they drew near to their table and she caught sight of Fink, beaming at his fortune. A prince at court. How he must have enjoyed hand picking his table. 

By that metaphor then, they were the kings jesters. Or magicians perhaps, since the kingdom felt so inclined to continue to use the term "levitate."

It _pained_ her how exceedingly dull and unimaginative this city's people were. Often enough she thought she might wake Robert one night, power up the Device and leave this universe entirely. But every spell that disabled and every drop that spilled from Robert halts all her thoughts. She could never put him through that again. And certainly Robert would protest to their leaving. He was always so keen to teach, to continue research. Despite his null existence in this universe, he was the reason that kept her here.

Perhaps his impossibility is what drew her to him, some silken strand of the universe that bound them together. Every person who encountered him could sense deep in their unconscious that he was infinitely _unique_.

And as she entertained this conjecture, Fink turned in their direction as if sensing their exceptional existence, drawn to the parallel covalence.

“There you are!”

Fink stood from his chair to greet them. “Robert, you’re there by Albert and Lannon.” “Madame, you’re seated here by me,”

She shared with him a glance.  Of course she was seated next to him. Robert was mildly annoyed with the arrangement, the same expression about his face as earlier when Fink had cut in to dance. He had tried to hide it, but she knew his subtleties. She smiled at him, placating and polite as she let him escort her to her chair before sitting at his.

"It's quite the pleasure to have you two this evening," Fink said, seating himself again, adjusting his chair as it was before.

"Quite." Rosalind answered, aware of the attention. 

"And of course, all of you," he added with a genial smile to the other guests. 

At his side, she surveyed her dining fellows, who, for the most part, were an eclectic bunch, joined by the interesting vector of Jeremiah Fink. She quickly set ant deducing each. There was Albert of course, leaner and softer in expression than his brother, and his wife Ruth, who was to her right. Beyond their encounters at their music shop, she did not have much else in common with her, although, she suspected the Lady Fink knew much more than she would have people believe. Perhaps she was one of a handful of women she tolerated in the city. They could hold a conversation, if only about music. Beyond her was James Marlowe, son of Charles Marlowe, who sat just next to him. James was quite dull, educated, yes, but not exceptional. A son who would inherit his father’s businesses and flounder perhaps. Or a figurehead. She could foresee and suspected from Gwendolyn's comments, that her Uncle worked to prevent that, sensing his niece was more clever than her cousin. Was that a deciding factor in his acceptance of her position at their laboratory?

She considered further why James and Gwendolyn were seated with them. Fink obviously thought they were valuable. Enamor the father, enamor the son? Columbia's most prominent tobacco distributor was of course, in his interest. All the more to continue that with James. And Gwendolyn? Was it her connection to the laboratories that earned her a seat? Or again, was Fink fully invested in the Marlowe name? Perhaps both. 

Charles himself was a man more traditional than progressive, acknowledging when change was necessary, though in reaction rather than foresight. He was known well on the Mainland before he was sought by the Planning Committee, his tobacco production rivaling many.

Across from him, on Fink's left, was Agnes Vanderwall, matriarch of the Vanderwall Clan. She looked hardly like the mother of five and grandmother of eight and more like the shrewd businesswoman she was. Columbia Freight was hers, run with a tight fist. She had no rivals but Fink. Fitting he would have her at an arms length.

What did that say of her own position at his right? Or Robert’s between Albert and Lannon? Did he view them as maintaining some sort of competition with him? Or perhaps he fancied them friends? She doubted the man carried much sentiment, if any. Charming as he was, she was well aware of his elements, that he was sharp as a knife.

He was brilliant and disgusting. If she had met him first instead of Comstock or Arthurton, might he have weaseled his way into her graces? Might she have been his mistress to get his coin? There was no doubt of his brilliance. He took ideas, yes, but for every one he claimed, he had five more that were equal to it, and sevenfold for how he might improve and bastardize it into a marvel. His craft was in machines, and numbers, and science. She witnessed him work, the gears in his mind moving. He could keep up with her work—not all of it in its entirety, but most of it, and he never forgot the foundations she explained for him. If he had the time, the interest, and the access, she feared, truly, what kind of Contraption he might make.

At the very least, for a night, she could tolerate him, and she could tolerate them. _Most_ of them.

Lannon laughed too loudly at a joke Albert made, and she looked up from her napkin she had placed on her lap. Rosalind folded her hands, making eye contact with Robert, telegraphing the barest of grimaces. From across the table she saw his jaw set.

Glass chimed, voices died down, and the head butler stood at the foot of the head table, announcing the selection.

“Tonight’s selection: _Consomme, bread sticks, salted pecans, roast goose, potato stuffing, apple sauce, duchess potatoes, chicken croquettes with green peas, English plum pudding and brandy sauce.”_

Comstock stood, clasping his hands, looking like Father Christmas. “Dear friends, Columbians. Thank you all very much for coming. Annabelle and I both are delighted to open our home and our hearts to each and everyone of you this blessed occasion. Let us thank the Good Lord for the wonderful food we are about to enjoy: Heavenly Father, we thank you for this bountiful meal, all the friends that are gathered here, and the wondrous year you’ve given us in this earthly Heaven…”

Fink did not bow his head, whilst Robert did out of his old-world habits.

“We look forward to the next year and all the blessings you bring. Amen.”

There was a chorus of ‘Amen’, setting the valets, maids, and help into motion. 

"How grateful we are for a short prayer." Marlowe praised.

Albert grinned. "Short prayers reach Heaven."

"Then it’s a good thing we are much closer now,"Agnes added and Fink turned to her, amused.

 "Which makes the Fall that much greater."

From across the table, Robert made eye contact with her, knowing full well, her annoyance with biblical  metaphors about the city.  The _fifth_ so far this evening. He quirked the corner of his mouth and she raised an eyebrow.

"And good deal we've got that sorted, eh Lutece?" Lannon added, rounding off the run with a pat on Robert’s shoulder, breaking their eye contact.  "Well done on the Sinclair boy," he said to her. She made a bit of an effort to keep from raising her brow further. Lannon had never offered praise of any amount in her direction, not without, at least, some form of criticism or remark. Surely this was would be followed by a thinly veiled comment on her _finally_ recognizing Leander's talents, or that she did not solve the deicing problem herself?

"Mr. Sinclair has proven to be exceptionally clever. We shall certainly keep our eyes on him." Though her attention was on Lannon,  she saw Gwendolyn's interest on the subject matter from the corner of her eye.

"An investment, if I ever saw one," Fink said lightheartedly, as the consommé was served and there were small laughs of agreement all around.

Rosalind started her soup, observing, as she swirled the broth in her porcelain bowl, that all parties at this table were in one form or another, involved with a business.

"And how are your children doing, Agnes?" Marlowe asked, keeping up the conversation.

“I assume they’re doing fine, Charles. They’ve hardly been children for _decades_.” She paused to let the waitstaff take her finished plate. “I could do without them for the evening.”

“My apologies.”

Agnes waived her hand like some aged and veteran queen. “Tell me, James, has your Father let you have your run of the business yet?” She added aside to Marlowe, “You must instruct them young if they’re to succeed— ”

“—Ma’am, your potatoes,” a maid said at Rosalind’s elbow, so that she did not hear either Marlowe’s answer. Rosalind nodded as the maid put the plate down and stepped back to the dish carts and other waitstaff. She thought the interaction rather odd, but then again, Comstock would have needed to hire new staff to cover such extensive operations.

“No, no,” an older woman hissed. “It ain’t your business to be talking serving meals, Daisy.”

She inclined her head to the conversation behind her, curious, more interested than the current table talk.

“William,” the harsh whispering continued, “Why is the _Scullery Maid_ serving the guests?”

“We’re short staffed this season. That damned influenza—”

She had not meant to listen that closely, but as she returned her attention to the table once more, she noticed Fink had his head inclined as well to the conversation, and they both made unintentional eye contact. The simplicity of the connection struck her. His was a face that was handsome, but could have become cruel in an instant. Beneath the bored expression, a curiosity burned. _How might he use this information to his advantage?_

Rosalind returned to her meal. Unbidden, the thought of the Contraption, always, came to mind; the abuse, the bastardization. Mounts of dodos, dinosaurs, extinct exhibits.

There was another round of laughter, returning her back to the conversation. She had missed the joke but she looked across at Robert and he seemed to find it particularly amusing.

“But I digress,” Charles sobered. “I don’t need to explain business to anyone here, certainly not after your performance, Albert. Absolutely splendid! Astounding how you compose.”

Albert was well adept to take praise, his practiced smile and grace groomed from the same source as his brother. “I _discover.”_

Rosalind fought to keep from rolling her eyes. She thought Albert to be the more tolerable of the Finks, but there were times they were more similar than different.

“What is your method?” Gwendolyn asked, interested.

“Method?” Albert repeated, as if he had not heard her clearly.

 _Bless_ the girl for making interesting small talk. Rosalind rather liked that she put Albert on the spot, because she was immensely curious of his sudden prowess and expanse of repertoire. There was always, always, something unseen with a Fink.

He flashed his practiced smile again as he sought the right words to answer. “My dear Ruth has always been my muse,” he said, acknowledging her. “But, I find music to be like…a science; a record of time passing a certain way.”

Finding his stride, he continued. "Yes, of course there is inspiration, but then there is also calculation; determining the structure of a piece, and examination; looking at it as a whole and wondering, really, if I haven't come up with utter garbage," he admitted, eliciting laughter.

"Modest as always, my brother is." Fink chimed in.

"Lord knows, it's not you, Jeremiah," Agnes cackled, and Fink joined in the laughter. 

"Unabashedly," he announced. 

"On that topic, however," Agnes sobered. “I’ve heard there’s quite a bit of science in music. Mind you this is only what my dear Clara has brought up at Thanksgiving. I haven't the time for the newspaper or journals."

They all looked to Rosalind as if she was the Authority on all sciences—and to a point, she _was_. But it was not some separate discipline that was bunched with mathematics, chemistry, or biology. Rather, it was an art that incorporated the _principles_ of science, particularly mathematics. She explained all this, and more or less they gave her appropriate attention and interest.

"Well there you have it," Fink smiled. "Our Great Madame has enlightened us. Who better than one who also appreciates music? Albert's told me you and Robert are in his studio often enough."

“Often enough,” Rosalind said, thinking perhaps she last set foot in Magical Melodies in August.

"Just the other day, I believe," he added, tapping at his mustache in thought.

She glanced at Robert across the table, a look of alarm flashing across his face for an instant before feigning a cough and taking a sip of his drink. “I do enjoy the holidays," he said. “I simply must find this evening’s selection for our personal collection.”

“Will we be seeing more things from you anytime soon, Lutece?” Marlowe asked, casually drinking from his mead as well. "I know Jeremiah's working _wonders_ with his vigors. What do Columbia's Greatest Minds have in store?"

"Honestly, Charles, is it your intent to start a bitter feud between them?" Agnes laughed. "You do them an injustice. Take my word for it, a feud exists only to describe how a person cannot admit they are intimidated. To this day, Margaret _insists_ that her husband’s death was caused by my business proposition.”

Rosalind smiled. She liked this woman, but she had heard a great deal more about that proposition. Margaret Tellock-Baker had full reason to be _terrified_ of her. She was ruthless.

"What's a little sport between peers, eh?" Fink deftly maneuvered the discussion.

Rosalind’s smiled faltered; was she the same as Fink? Or worse, a ruthless woman to add to his arsenal?

"But I know I've always held my work to the utmost of secrecy until I was ready to unveil them,” he continued. “I should like to extend that to our dear physicists. I've no doubt they are working on the next marvel."

She smiled cryptically. They had already unveiled the next marvel. She doubted even if Comstock hadn't needed the secrecy, Columbia, wouldn't understand the brevity of just what she and Robert had done. Perhaps it was only those at this table who proved the most threat.

Of Fink, she was already sure of what he might do, perhaps pull Albert and Ruth into it, introducing music from other universes. Lannon, of course, was always inclined to mettle in matters he didn't fully understand. He would aim to please his master in every universe.  The man was bright, she would give him that, but not exceptionally clever. The kind of person who had to work for their knowledge.

Agnes would gain the most, secured in the fact that she could strengthen business transporting inanimate objects, alternate or otherwise, because there was no consequence in trans-dimensional shifting like there was in humans, or so they believed.

The Marlowes wouldn't care to derive business if they weren't losing any profit from what they were currently doing. Gwendolyn was the exception.  Oh yes. Rosalind studied her as she listened to the continued conversation. She would not be so concerned with business as much as studying tears. In her weeks she’d been with them, she was learning, improving, predicting. Identifying patterns and pausing for logic. The potential for her to understand truly what the Contraption did was not dependent on if, but _when_. Perhaps she might ask her what her thoughts were on the machine.

Fink laughed at some joke, reminding her of her thoughts earlier. Perhaps she might increase Gwendolyn's wages for that purpose. There were too many interested parties at this table with an interest in their work.

"...But bless her heart," Charles, bull necked and red in the face from brandy said, finishing his story. His own laughter died and he sobered "A pity She remained an old maid." He drank heartily from his drink. "To have caused a ruckus over a fine gentleman. Isn't that what all young woman hope for?"

"No," Gwendolyn muttered, perhaps louder than she thought.

Rosalind raised an eyebrow, as did everyone else at the table. 

"I'm sorry, what was that my dear." Marlowe asked, perhaps having missed her forthright answer beneath his heavy drinking.

Gwendolyn looked anxious but prepared to answer her uncle. 

Agnes put her own drink down, giving him a withering glance. "No, it's not."

In the mounting silence when no one dared to move, when Robert, Fink, Lannon, and the other men glanced uncertainly at the shipping magnate, Rosalind lifted her mead and sipped, her lip curling derisively. Dinner had become much more _interesting_.

Gwendolyn glanced fleetingly at her. She looked at her approvingly over the rim of her drink.

Marlowe wiped at his chin, realizing he had offended half the table in an unorthodox conundrum. He glanced at Fink for discernment , but Fink merely looked to Agnes again as if to say 'Solve this yourself.'

"Ah forgive me, ladies. I assumed, incorrectly about your own aspirations."

There was effort, Rosalind thought, but he was still grossly incorrect in his assumption. That women's were separate from men's or that they were fragile. The slight was not only that all woman wanted a man, but that all woman wanted the same thing of lesser value to anything a man could want.

"The slight is forgiven, Charles. It's not simply that all young women aspire to be married, it is that we are shaped to, from birth, out of necessity. To focus on security and not legacy."

Agnes too, stopped for pause to drink, and continued. She addressed Gwendolyn. "Find a husband, or don't. It is your choice. For a woman, there is benefit in a husband. Children, however strict or soft you raise them, will always be unpredictable. The best that Francis could ever leave me was his business, and _that_ will always be my legacy."

"Agnes will outlive us all, gentleman," Fink finally intervened, to diffuse the situation. He signaled at the valet to fill everyone’s glass. "And truly, she understands exactly what we all strive for everyday. May I propose a toast?"

Rosalind raised her glass, intrigued.

“It is a testament of our ingenuity and prowess that we dine tonight in the clouds, here and together-”

Casually she glanced around the table. Theirs was a collection of potential, proven and capable of the infinite. Lannon, she observed, was very careful to keep his sleeve covering the skin of his raised arm.

“-We founded this city. We make the rules-”

Robert caught her eye at Fink’s boldness.

“To _us_ , and to Columbia in this year and the next!”

After they had drunk from their glasses, Agnes said, “That is a toast if I ever heard one. Take notes, gentlemen. Jeremiah will outlive us all.”

The laughter from Lannon, Marlowe, James, and Albert was louder this time, perhaps to prove they had moved past the tension. To Rosalind it sounded false, patronizing, the irony of it a nauseating commentary of the evening despite the plate of roast goose and apple sauce placed in front of her.

With the new course capturing their attention, the conversation lulled, no real statements beyond the culinary opinion, until Lannon started, “I know you are a man of science, Robert. Do you also appreciate the Sweet Science?”

Rosalind paused her meal. Robert glanced at her before answering, “I do.”

She was very glad he did not mention that his participation in Gentlemen’s Fight clubs was to garner extra funds for his arrears and research, and not simply observation. Even still he had not spoken about his skill to her in any form and she was curious for it.

Lannon seemed pleased. “Excellent! I had thought you not the kind of man who stomachs blood.”

At this she waited for Robert’s reply. He smirked, looking unusually competitive. “Blood does not upset me.”

“We are in good company,” Albert chimed.

The men laughed, either because they held fast to their beastly sport or because they ought, lest they appear soft and fragile. In their midst, Robert was the exception, for none had shed as much blood as he did. It was trivial to her how men thought themselves the most independent, the most outstanding and yet they chose to dress the same.

Robert sensed that she was observing him. He turned and smiled warmly at her.

He was the most different of them all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just laying some groundwork.


	14. Addenda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert spends Christmas Day with Rosalind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood and animal testing/cruelty.

_“Things to be added.”_

 

* * *

**December 25, 1894, Tuesday**

_First, catch your hare._

He had thought her annoyed with his enthusiasm for the holidays, knocking excitedly on her bedroom door. She had merely opened it, fastening the buttons of her shirt and spoke coyly before shutting it once more. But her words lifted his spirits and he made his way downstairs to the mud room beyond the kitchen.

Early on, they had discovered the constant of their childhood; rabbit pie. The occasion was variable; birthdays and compromise for her, illness and departing the summer home for him, but regardless, Mother and Father knew how to keep them replete. Already, he anticipated the aroma of the meal filling the house despite the very strong scent of urine that washed over him from their rabbit hutches. Primarily, their rabbits were for testing. They needed to test biologicals for the Contraption and the infusions, but at the very least, they kept some stock unmarred for control and for consumption.

Robert went to the hutch of unblemished rabbits, peering at first at the group. The poor chaps. Who was to be the lucky one? _Un_ lucky one? Did he choose the same buck in each universe? Or a different one in each? Surely there was one where they did not have pie on Christmas day at all. Deciding between brothers, he thought of Rosalind. Was she random in her decision to connect with him? Did she open up to tears of Roberts less promising than he?

Before he fell into regression, he sought to choose one randomly, the one farthest. The animal was warm and did not struggle, the weight of it like an infant, and he thought instantly of the Girl that had been gingerly placed in his arms. He recalled the smell of alcohol on Dewitt’s breath and the musty rags the child was wrapped in; his first new memories when he had finally stitched himself together—

“—Robert?” Rosalind called from the kitchen, returning his mind to the present. She was beginning to set up pot and pans.

“Have you made your selection yet?” she asked when he had come back in. He presented her his catch, scratching between its ears.

Robert placed the rabbit on the kitchen island, so that he might continue his slice of toast he had left. He pursed his lips unseriously at her casual attire before taking a bite. “You’re _dressed_ for the occasion.” She had been so particular about presentation this morning.

“As are you,” she shot back at his suspenders and slapdash sleeves, and snatched the remaining half of his toast. “Happy Christmas.” She smiled before taking a bite.

His lips formed a wry smile. “Happy Christmas.” He watched her wipe at the crumbs on her mouth. “So, gifts now or later?”

“How about work _now_ , gifts later?,” she compromised. “That way we have uninterrupted sessions of both.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“But first, let’s begin the pie.” Rosalind corralled the buck on the counter, drawing it near to her. She examined him for good measure, checking its paws and teeth before she too gave it an affectionate scratch between its ears. He imagined her as her young self, perhaps spending time in the meadow during summertime, observing animals and insects.

“Is he to your liking?”

She glanced up at him, her smile returning. “Quite. Now,” she said in the same breath, “If you please, be sure to catch all the blood.”

Before he could grab the bowl and prevent the light crimson mist, she had drawn the knife swiftly under the animal’s neck.

Her mouth thinned at his miss, but her face remained impassive throughout the entire culling.

“Good. Set it aside for now. We may yet have use for it later with the infusions.”

Robert placed the bowl aside, watching as she continued. The process of her making the pie was one he was never witness too. It had always been presented to him cooked, delicious. How many animals had she gutted in her youth? How many since his crossing? Her hands grew more rubicund. He could not tear his eyes from them.

There was method to her gutting. More dissection than evisceration. More analysis than haruspicy.

“Won’t you be a darling and check the mail, dear brother?” she said without looking up from her work. She placed organs in a bowl, meat in another.

He would rather continue watching her, but his spell had been broken. “Of course.”

Before they had an assistant, there were days often they’d forget the mail. Even still, on weekends or holidays, when Gwen was off, a pile of telegrams and letters and invoices would await in the foyer. He didn't expect much of a stack awaiting this morning but when he reached the door, there were three packages and a couple letters. 

Robert grinned. 

These were sure to be more festive than the usual telegram of reactor status. He gathered them, determining their senders and information. He placed the packages on the table at the foot of the stairs for later. There was a daily telegram of the buoy relay, an invoice from Harper's, and a fine envelope addressed to him. He flipped it over. 

A bold _‘F’_ letterhead acted as a seal. Perhaps he should open this in Rosalind's presence. 

She was as he left her, deep into her work.

“There’s a letter addressed to me.”

“Oh?”

“From Fink.”

She paused.

“Open it.”

He was careful to preserve the integrity of the envelope, sliding out a thick invitation. _Please join me for drinks. - J._

It was scrawled in that neat hand of his. Rosalind considered a moment more before continuing with the pastry.

On the back were the details. _January 13th, Good Time Club, 2pm._

“I assume I shall be in attendance?”

“Spare us the pleasure.”

“And miss the gossip?” he joked.

“Robert, be _very careful_ with Fink.”

He glanced at her. Her usual annoyance of the man was drilled into him from the beginning but he did not see the harm in an afternoon. Surely she would if he convinced her? He was not a child after all, nor feeble-minded, nor ill. The situation was advantageous.

“Perhaps I can get close to him. Socially, as a gentleman.” He would do the dirty work for her if she would but let him.

“I’ll not have you as a manservant to act on my behalf. We must take extreme caution in all matters with that man.”

“We’ll not come across this opportunity often.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Do you not think I, too, have accepted requests for lunch and taken the air with him?”

“Forgive me. I only mean to protect-”

“— _Protect_?”

Robert clenched his jaw, aware of his error, aware of her position.

“You mistake me. I’m _concerned_ of his interest in you,” he said honestly. “There is an intrigue in his dark eyes. You are like nothing he has ever seen; a great woman of power, of intelligence. Of cruelty,” At this he stole a glance at her hands still ruddy in spots. “You embody all that threatens him.”

Rosalind studied him and he felt that same clinical analysis, that visual vivisection that stripped him of everything. He could not bear its intensity. He returned his attention to the invitation, reassessing its value. He would never understand truly Fink’s threat until he witnessed it first hand. A hypothesis had to be observed, tested.

“Robert.”

He met her eyes. It was her tone that took his notice, full of concern and something close to fear.

“What if it is _you_ that intrigues him?”

He frowned. “How do you mean?”

Rosalind shook her head. “Let’s not waste another breath on Fink this morning.”

“Very well.” He knew better than to press the matter, and he rolled his sleeves up to help her with their meal.

* * *

 

Perhaps in one universe, they were alchemists. Science had evolved alternately, had branched into something that resembled mythology and witchcraft. Perhaps Rosalind had made tangible the Elixir of Life, unlocked the secrets of dimensional transmutation. Perhaps they’d already have solved this experiment of infusions in ordinary fashion, that is to say, much quicker and adept than their luck in this universe has been.

While the last two days had been productive, they had not produced anything viable. They had lost two rabbits. Their goal, ultimately, was to create an infusion that restored health, revitalized, and rejuvenated. Rosalind had initially started the project early on when Comstock had begun to show signs of premature aging. It was startling, really, how fast the man wrinkled and grayed, almost as if the Contraption demanded some mortal toll. There was more research to be done why he and Rosalind had not shown any effects despite their constant exposure. If anything, developing a solution to prevent it in them was all the more reason to do so.

The results so far had been less than encouraging. Yesterday, a rabbit had bled so profusely, he was certain it had expelled its entire volume. It had frightened him if only as a reminder of his own spells. Rosalind called an early night; he was grateful.

He had hoped the promise of the holidays would drive him to better results this afternoon, but he found himself frustrated. He was set to distill the valerian root but the process had only yielded a minuscule amount of essence before becoming extremely viscous and unusable. After checking his calculations and restarting the distillation, he had watched the second batch run bad in the alembic.

Robert removed the cap and went to the sink to dispense with the liquid again, sighing. He set his arms on the edge of the sink and leaned, looking out the window.  What had gone wrong? They had made adjustments for altitude. Perhaps they had drifted? Making his way to the great room, he strode past Rosalind to the set of meters that sat upon the desk. Everything appeared right.

Resigned, he made the few steps back to the kitchen and leaned on the door post, watching Rosalind. She was always so concentrated, always much more adept than he was.

“Again?” she said, without looking up, continuing with her formula calculations in a notebook.

He hummed his affirmative.

“You’ve accounted for altitude? For copper instead of glass?”

“Yes, subtract five minutes from boil, increase temperature by three. I’ve rechecked it twice.” He did not want her to believe he was distracted by the holidays, by the pie baking, by the gifts down the hall, or indeed, that he did not care for them so much as he was looking forward to giving her his gifts.

“And the valerian?”

“Of course. Absolute temperature at eighty-seven degrees Farenheit.”

Her writing paused. “You’re certain?”

“How could I forget? The day I learned it was the day Mother and Father dismissed my governess. They were most pleased I had surpassed my need for one.”

She hummed her disagreement. “Mother and Father saw it _quite_ differently for their daughter, dismissing that blasted woman for encouraging her in science.”

Robert opened his mouth to apologize, but she waved a hand. Her mood was always much more pleasant when she was thoroughly engrossed in work, even if it wasn’t going her way; he was envious of her ability.

“And you?” he asked. “Any luck?”

She smiled coyly, closing the notebook and turning to face him fully. “Oh no. Just years of experience.”

“Watch your cheek, I’ve studied too, _”_ he told her and could not stop his smile from breaking his feigned offense.  

Rosalind stood, crossing her arms. “Well, color me reassured. I was afraid we’d finally discovered our difference.”

Even as he stood taller than her, she still matched his height by sheer will.

“And? Do you find me lacking?” Despite the intensity of her scrutiny, he was also so eager to put himself back under it.

Her eyes assessed him quickly. “Hardly. And I’ve no doubt of your memory, dear brother, but in this universe,” she adjusted the dial a sliver. “Valerian distills at eighty-five.”

“Eighty-five?” He thought on it, struggled to find the dissonance, and found none. Frequently when there were conflicting memories that were minor; a choice of bread or type of cheese, he experienced slight confusion, as if he'd retained his memories but decided to go against them. A major dissonance of course became a spell. But this memory, this milestone, remained unblemished. "You're certain?"

"I've no reason not to be."

"And I the same."

Rosalind pursed her lips. "Interesting that such a strong memory remains.” She fell into deep thought a moment. "Regardless, we do still have viable amounts of valerian oil for testing. Shall we?"

They set about preparing their ingredients for mixing. This was more trial and error than labor and reward, the risk for failure higher and more certain than success. But they knew a thing or two about failed experiments. Where would they be, indeed, where would _he_ be if they had not repeated tests, adjusted parameters, rebuilt prototypes? It was laborious, tedious at times, but necessary to find and eliminate the errors so that the final product might be a paradigm of principle and excellence.

"The addition of feverfew yesterday produced unfavorable and ultimately retroactive results," she recorded aloud. "We will not pursue any further research at this time."

Across the counter, she glanced at him, perhaps to reassure him that such a bloody incident would not occur in their home again.

"Right, then," she began, rolling up her sleeves. 

In lieu of dittany, which would not arrive for a few weeks, they had decided to use valerian as a base today. As it was her hypothesis, it was only fitting She be the one to finalize the compound. They had spent time earlier going through old texts. Somehow she had procured an edition of 17th Century botanist John Gerard's _Herball._ He was not quite sure when or even how she had gotten it and he was sure he would not like the answer.

Rosalind started a low simmer. Her careful attention was something that always drew his admiration. "Begin at 100 degrees," she dictated, and he recorded the data. She moved effortlessly as she navigated the instruments, adjusting dials and stirring flasks. It was as he observed her at the piano, hands a fluid but calculated grace. When she had finished, she removed the flask from the burner and swished it gently while Robert prepared a small vial of the blood they had collected earlier.

The first step in determining whether they were on the right track was direct contact with blood. If there were no immediate effects, they would move on to the next phase of testing. Some of their earlier formulas had not progressed further from this stage. Blood had curdled, congealed, turned solid, or likewise, boiled, blackened, and separated. His gut turned when he imagined what would have happened if they had tested them on a live animal.

They introduced a few drops into the vial and he held his breath. Thankfully, the blood did not turn or take on some dramatic change. Rosalind exchanged a look with him. He nodded. They would move on to a rabbit now.

He returned to the mud room again and selected one, this time no longer musing about this selection. Rosalind performed her thorough inspection again and when she had determined it an acceptable subject, she set about making a calculated incision on its hind leg. The buck nipped at her hand in retaliation, but she merely accepted the pain and continued with the test.

With a pair of tongs, Robert prepared a swab of gauze he doused with the compound and applied it to the wound.

The act of waiting was tedious, Rosalind often said, though she frowned when he had suggested she was impatient. In this moment, as they waited for any accelerated or exaggerated events, there existed an intensity in her gaze.

“There,” she whispered. He looked closer at the split flesh and sure enough, the bleeding receded and in the span of a breath the wound closed.

Robert grinned. He made to share his celebration with her, but she remained fixed on the animal, her brow furrowing. “Watch closer, Robert.”

He looked back at the rabbit, only to find that the wound that had healed so miraculously was suddenly festering, forming a keloid that swelled at an alarming rate. In the span of another breath it had doubled, each fleshy cyst multiplying and growing. Quickly, the growth had spread over the entirety of the animal’s haunches. He could not look away from the wellspring of tumors. He hastily calculated the rate of the growth while Rosalind hastened to the sink.

As he turned to relay her his numbers, she had procured a knife and thrust it into the rabbit’s chest. She must have missed the tiny heart because it continued to writhe. She made to draw it out for another thrust but tumors sprung from the new wound faster than before, swallowing the blade.

Robert tensed and pulled her back from the counter. Together they watched in silence as the swelling, tumorous flesh overtook the animal’s body. The growth spread to the animal’s face, suffocating it, and it finally stopped.

He released his breath.

Rosalind tugged at her hand, and he realized he had been holding it. She walked around the island to examine the remains.

“That’s unfortunate.” From the fireplace, she picked up a stoke and prodded it curiously. “Fascinating. It seems to affect only living tissue.”

Seeing her so close and so curious worried him. It was such a startling reaction.

She stood up, her face optimistic. “By far, it’s yielded the best results. Notebook, please.”

He grimaced and handed it to her. “From your perspective.”

“The issue is control,” she said, flipping through pages. “Valerian is very sensitive to heat. Perhaps us distilling at eighty-seven degrees altered the formula? Or might the results be the same regardless of the purity of the essence?”

“Well,” he started, thinking on it. Her point was valid. “It is promising. _If_ we can control the reaction.”

She gave him a smile that was both approval of his agreement and that irresistible spark of challenge she had when given an impossible task. In this moment she was both charming and maddening.

“We are still waiting for the dittany to arrive, mind you, and I have a feeling that might be the final piece. Until then,” she sighed and rolled up her sleeves once more to clear up the rabbit remains. “We endeavor.”

He set about helping her again, though he was insistent they did not touch it with their bare hands. They managed to roll it onto a decent amount of burlap that they had outside and prepared a fire to incinerate it in their small brick patio. Despite the warmth it generated, he did not step near it, lest they inhale any remaining particles. At first the remains had proven difficult to burn even with kindling, but it finally caught and he stared into the flames as it charred. His belly rumbled, reminding him he had not eaten properly, that not ten steps away there roasted a different rabbit.

“I think that should suffice,” Rosalind said after a few minutes. She glanced at him for his opinion. “You needn’t look askance. Chin up, dearest, we’ve got presents.”

 

 

 

 


	15. Vinum et musica laetificant cor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosalind spends Christmas evening with Robert.

 

_“Wine and music gladden the heart.”_

 

* * *

All her memorable Christmas pasts occurred before she was ten years old; when they returned to the summer home for the holiday, when Aunt Freddie visited, when Mother and Father still believed their daughter would outgrow her unseemly interests and traits. They would sit round the fire and Aunt Freddie would slip her a spot of mead when Father wasn’t looking and exchange gifts. Rosalind suspected Robert’s must have been similar because he had suggested they celebrate upstairs in the music room. Or perhaps he was in the mind to create his own? He had insisted he get a fire going and she had made to bring up the pie.

She had reached the top of the stairs when the sound of dust falling was followed by—

_“—Bollocks!”_

The corner of her mouth quirked. He cursed on the rare occasion; static discharge from a generator, an experiment not going his way. She found it endearing.

He was dusting off the soot that had come down from the chimney when she entered the room.

“Why couldn’t we hire a sweep?” he coughed.

She gestured for him to draw near to her so that she might wipe the dark blemish off his cheek with a napkin. “Soot is good, clean dirt.”

He turned up his chin as best he could in her hand. “If I were a sweep.”

“A good thing, then, you aren’t,” she said, releasing him and returning to set up.

Robert straightened. “Oh? And why is that?”

“You would be ill-fitting in such a profession.” She cut the pie carefully, pausing to add, “And not nearly as charming.”

He seemed pleased with her answer. “I do try.”

Rosalind grinned further. “It’s rather _cold_ in here. Complimenting yourself gets us nowhere.”

“It brought me _here._ ”

Walking the few steps to him, she gave him his plate and smiled. “So it did.” His expression changed into something serious and he looked at her as if she was the most interesting thing in the room. “So,” she glanced away from the intensity, “Shall we open these?”

They had brought up the gifts from downstairs as well; a neat pile at the foot of the velvet couch. Much more than she had expected, but still a delight. She picked up a small pine box that Comstock had given them the other day. She had wanted to open it but Robert insisted they wait until today. The box canted as she lifted it, the sound of liquid sloshing in a bottle very apparent.

“I wonder what that could be,” Robert said sarcastically.

No surprise it was alcohol when she lifted the lid. Truly predictable and possessing such old-world grandstanding.  How many bottles had he sent out this Christmas? He was oddly sentimental. Still, she examined the bottle, he had good taste. “Christmastime,” she read aloud. “O’Hare Spirits.” She had sampled their Summertime Elderflower Mead and was very impressed; the first brew of the city. “Let’s have a taste.”

From their cupboard, she took two glasses and poured the dark liquid. She gave him his and she sat on the arm of the armchair.

“It’s not Uncle Freddie’s mulled mead, but it’s rather good,” he said.

“Do you wonder if Aunt Freddie’s gender is reliant on the variable of ours?”

Robert shrugged and swallowed the large bite he had shoveled into his mouth. “They never married. Is that any factor?”

Rosalind pondered on it, if the implication he suggested _was_ the defining factor. “In our universes.” Once, when she was a girl visiting in London, she had spied her aunt in deep conversation with her dear friend Prudence in the middle of the night, and after they had spoken, they had embraced each other, and she had learned about intimacy that night. Perhaps in one universe they had been allowed to wed.

“And in your universe? Did he have a _dear friend_?”

Robert glanced aside as if he was recalling an old memory. “Yes. Peter.”

She thought on it more. In many ways, Freddie might have been like them, accepting of their fluid existence.

“I don’t think they’d have minded. Man, woman, or something else entirely.” She finished the remainder of her drink.

“Neither would I,” Robert said, and Rosalind smiled at him over the rim of her glass.

She rather enjoyed what they had started. There was never a clear line of labor and reward when it was simply herself, but with Robert, the division of labor remained, with twice the reward.

“So, I’ve opened one. It’s your turn.”

“Right, then.”

From the three remaining packages, Robert selected the smallest one wrapped in brown paper and twine about the size of music box. Removing the wrapper, he smirked at the dark walnut box and held it up for her to see the embossed logo. “Fink.”

“Go on, then.”

He lifted the cover and raised his eyebrows. From the box, he carefully removed a brass and wooden object that was an assortment of gears and levers on the lower half and a miniature schooner at the top.

“Is that an automaton?” she asked, unable to mask her excitement. They were a rare art, rarer still in Columbia. The mechanisms were the principles of science made tangible, calculus and physics as expressive as a sculpture or painting. She had not expected such a gift from Fink, or that it could draw such a reaction from her. But perhaps it gave insight to the man who saw only gears and exactitude, found beauty in the precision and purpose of each piece. Rosalind turned the crank and the wooden schooner bobbed as if it sailed over a brass ocean.

“How intricate.”

“Yes.” Not often was she entertained by ornaments, but she stood to place it on the mantle of the fireplace. It was less a reminder of Fink in their lives and more in keeping with their ideals.

Of the two remaining gifts, she selected a thin sleeve that could only be a record. Gwendolyn had delivered it yesterday. Again, bless the girl and how observant she was, though their appreciation of music was perhaps the easiest deduction. She had been quick to notice. It was the selection of it that mattered.

“Adagio in G Minor,” she read when she had removed the wrapper. “Albinoni.” She had never heard of such a composer.

“Italian? Or perhaps Spanish?”

She placed the record on the gramophone and dropped the needle. Robert was at her elbow, curious as well. He refilled her glass.

“Ta.” This mead had a bold flavor, a distinct citrus and spice.

They waited a few moments as the record played a soft silence. Often she thought on the phenomenon of a recording and that bit of recorded silence. Was there some odd frequency that blared they were unable to hear? She had tried capturing it on voxophones to see if they might do further research. Perhaps it could be heard in other dimensions. Or other dimensions heard in theirs.

A soft lilt of strings began over the gentle pizzicato of the bass and the violin fell in with a pining delicacy; a combination of melancholy and serenity.

“Oh,” she said simply. “This is-”

“-beautiful, yes,” he agreed.

He took her hand, pulling her gently and placed his other on her waist and they started a slow waltz. Truly the music was a bit slow and somber for a waltz, but it was that they danced that made it enjoyable. They had not discussed it in length, but the act of dancing was the surest and quickest way for them to return to the same mind. On occasion, when they had fallen out of sync, through dissonance or disagreement, the connection and parallel strengthened through steps and timing and music. Keeping information from Robert felt off, even something so trivial as a gift.

“I’ve something for you,” she revealed.

Robert glanced down at her, a grin spreading across his face. “So have I.”

Rosalind smiled too, and she went to the desk near the window and removed the box she had hidden last Thursday.

“Happy Christmas,” she told him.

His face lit up. He took the gift, sat on the couch, and untied the twine off it carefully. She held her breath, hoping he would enjoy it. Or would he think it something too frivolous?

When he removed the sketchbook, he flipped through the pages and ran a finger down the gold inlay on the cover. He paused to examine the tool roll and the new medium she had chosen. Robert stared at the gifts, his expression unreadable now.

Was he disappointed that she had spent so much? The silence now was beginning to feel disappointing.

“We can return it if you would prefer something else—“

He stood up suddenly and his arms were embracing her. He turned his head to plant a light peck on her forehead. “It’s an extraordinary gift. Thank-you.”

She had not expected the affection, a bit thrown by it actually, but he released her and beamed down at his gifts. “Now I’ve got yours!”

Sheepishly, he went to the same desk and pulled open the opposite drawer, and she could not help but laugh. Should they continue to hide gifts there?

Robert presented a rather thick leather folio, and she thought perhaps it might be blueprints or even drawings he had done. She opened the cover, thoroughly surprised. There were 4 booklets of music, selections from Schubert, Brahms, Chabrier, and Chopin.

He picked out the Chopin and told her, “This is a personal piece. Something I think you might enjoy. But these,” he pointed to the others, “Are four hands.”

Rosalind was taken aback by the immensity of the gift. How long has been since she received a gift that had been selected with her in mind? Suitors gave her gifts _they_ thought were appropriate. But Robert was different; the only one who completely understood her. She smiled.

“Shall we play one?” he offered. He let her choose.

Picking the Brahms, she flipped open the music and pored over the notes. Her fingers tapped at the keys as she sight-read.  Robert pulled out the chair for them to sit as she set up the music. After making sure she had enough room, he sat next to her.

She positioned her hands over the keys, ready to play. He struggled to find his place a bit, rechecking the music. Rosalind reached across and stilled his hand, pressing it gently in gratitude.

She helped him set his hand on the right chords, and they began their duet.

* * *

 

Despite his casual skill at the piano, Robert was a good sport. While she had continued consistently with her lessons and playing in their youth, he had not. But, he had sought out music that she would enjoy, skill and style more to her tastes, and she appreciated his effort.

Their enjoyment of the mead however, was beginning to show and as they both stumbled over a section where the key and time measurement changed, he glanced at her and said with a smile, “My hands have forgotten how to dance.”

“Mine as well,” she confessed, and she took another sip from her glass that she had set atop the piano. She closed the booklet and placed it in the folio with the others.

“We’ve still got one more gift.”

“It’s your turn.”

Rosalind felt at the spines of the sheet music. He had gone out of his way to get this, braved even Albert Fink for an afternoon.

“Fink called you out at the Ball,” she said, hoping he might admit to his poor attempt at masking it. He had absolutely no poker-face.

“I know. I was afraid you’d figure it out.”

In truth she figured he was worried she might not approve of his visit, but Albert was more tolerable than his brother, and they had reason to visit his shop on occasion.

“His description of music is of note. ‘A record of time passing in a certain way.’ Poetic and accurate.”

“A bit cheeky of him to describe it as a science,” Robert complained.

“There is that,” she agreed, walking to where he was opening the last gift.

“There’s a card to both of us.” He handed her the small paper and she immediately recognized the neat script.

_‘For your splendid home. Happy Christmas, Arthurton.’_

Robert pulled a roll of canvas from a leather cylinder and laid it out on the couch. “Is this a mastercopy?” he asked, amazed.

A painting of soldiers, red coats and muskets, surrounding a fallen figure unfurled in full color. She recognized it as a depiction of the death of General Wolfe, commander of the British Army during the Seven Year’s War. She knew the original to be in Canada because Arthurton had mentioned it, as well as his friend the Governor General, the Duke of Argyll. Aside from that, there were four variants in existence done by the artist. Perhaps this was one of them. They had talked at length on several occasions of the arts but she did not expect a gift of this magnitude.

“I believe this might be the artist’s own hand.”

“How well connected is Arthurton?” he asked slowly.

“Very. Have I not mentioned his father is Thomas James Arthurton, 1st Baron Arthurton? Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales.”

“You must have forgotten that minor detail.”

The corner of her mouth perked. “Elsewhere he is The Hon. William Arthurton, barrister-at-law. Here he prefers to keep his peerage unknown and practices American law.”

“Certainly an extraordinary man.”

“He might say the same of you.” Arthurton was always very adept at recognizing talent and exception.

A blush crept across his face.

“He would,” she repeated. “He would not know how right he was. Now,” she said, rolling up the painting, “We shall hang this up later and write a very appreciative letter inviting him to lunch and afterwards, some tea.”

She placed the roll on the desk in the corner again.

“I’ve just remembered,” Robert said suddenly. “Or rather,” he murmured, and went to the desk with her. “I’ve been made privy to new information,” he said, rifling through another drawer and he held a Christmas cracker triumphantly.

“I’ve forgotten I’d had that.” Rosalind eyed him suspiciously as he rubbed at his left temple. She was beginning to worry of his drawing on her memories as a resource. “Do be careful.”

He shrugged as a young boy would and offered her the other end. She half expected it to be a dud—it was so old— but it popped and Robert grinned, eager to see what was inside; a whistle, a bit of chocolate, and a wooden toy soldier.

“Well, I’ve gotten better gifts this evening,” he joked.

“Good, you’ll have to wait until next year.”

HIs smiled widened.  “I do love it,” he said again. “’I’ve not enjoyed a gift like this since I got my microscope from Mother and Father.”

“When did you get that?”

“When I was nine.”

“I’d asked for one that year too, but Mother thought an embroidery set that year was more appropriate. Father managed to sneak in Newton’s _Principia Mathmatica_ ,” she added when she saw that Robert had become sad and was going to apologize.

“I have my suspicions,” she continued, “I think Mother was still upset because I had fallen out a tree that summer.”

He looked incredulous. “You fell out of a tree?”

“Yes. The apple tree near the study, you know the one—“

“—Cherry tree—“

“How interesting. But, from the apple tree, I fell right into a nettle bush.”

“How have I not heard any of this?”

“If you’re up for it,” she offered.

He nodded.

“No spells,” she pointed out, knowing full well he no control over it.

“You have my word,” he said and poured another glass of mead as he sat on the couch, only for her to snatch it.

“Aunt Freddie had her bridge club visiting for the weekend. It was a house full of hens. I will spare you the details. But, one of them, I believe her name was Judith, brought along her nephew. Perhaps to build up a friendship with me, but he was a ghastly misinformed boy.” She recalled his dirty fingernails and his terrible grammar, despite his privileged upbringing. “He knew painfully little about birds and their reproduction. So I had to correct him.”

“Did you?” He leaned forward in his seat as if he needed to know how she put this boy in his place.

Rosalind sighed. “There was a storm the week before that must have weakened the branches. I fell into the bush. And I had to endure the entire bridge club rubbing me in chamomile. All the while, Freddie tells the story about how she fell into a rockpool. Oh you should hear that one,” she realized. Perhaps he might even recall it because the memory so strong in her mind.

It was a rare occasion Mother left the city but she had come along with them to the beach.

“—And Aunt Freddie! Aunt Freddie was already two bottles of wine deep. She fell right in. Father and Prudence had to help her out.”

She snorted loudly, remembering the day. The alcohol was beginning to take its effect. “As if upset, a fish came up out of the water and slapped her acroas the face. Only, she hadn’t seen it and she was so perplexed, even when we explained to her.”

They fell into a fit of laughter and after his own had died, Robert clutched at his side and asked, “Why don’t I hear you laugh like this often?”

“Laugh like _this_?” she asked, fingers pressing to her lips to barely contain a snicker. “What? With the _alcohol_?”

“With the whole of you?” He said seriously and she sobered a bit.

“I’m only ever whole when I’m with you.”

An expression formed about his face and she could sense her words had affected him tremendously. She glanced away, stifling a yawn.

“I will regret this tomorrow,” she said, holding the glass. “And we know how Lutece women handle alcohol.”

He yawned as well, reclining on the couch as he rubbed his eyes. “It’s the men that handle it poorly.”

She joined him. “ _We_ handle it marvelously.” The couch fit them both, though not without adjustment. They barely fit shoulder to shoulder and he placed his arm around hers to make room.

“We are quite the pair, wouldn’t you agree, sweet sister?” Robert pressed his lips to the top of her forehead again. He laughed, loosening his collar.

Rosalind glanced at him sidelong. He had never called her sister before. She turned her head slightly and kissed the corner of his mouth. His smile faltered, and he turned to face her more fully.

Avoiding his gaze, she sat up to put her glass on the table. His affection this evening had grown bold. What was the meaning behind it? A question for another day. She settled back beside him. The heat of his body was lulling; the scent of his macassar and the texture of his shirt so familiar now.

“I’ve told a story. Now it’s your turn.”

“We’ve shared all our stories, I believe.”

“You know _my_ stories. I do not know yours. It does not have to be funny. I will enjoy it because it is you.” She yawned again and rested her cheek on his shoulder. “Because it is us.”

She heard him acquiesce with a sigh, his breath escaping his lungs as his chest rose and fell.

“Do you think Prudence and Peter could be the same person?” she thought fleetingly. Her mind was becoming muddled, eye lids warm and heavy.

“I suppose…they…”

His answer faded and she wondered if they could open a tear and meet with them as sleep took her.

 


	16. Incertae sedis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert laments the return to work the day after Christmas.

 

_“Of uncertain placement”_

* * *

 

**December 26, 1894, Wednesday**

It was the chill that woke him, the fire from last night now embers cooling in the fireplace. Robert slid his eyes closed and inhaled.

There was a formula to waking, a procedure to be followed. When one slept in a universe and woke in another, or yet, had taken two different paths, it was necessary to ground himself. Every slumber was a deconstruction of self, a rearrangement into Rosalind, and every waking an assembly, a reconditioning to Robert.

His brain was unreliable, in a fugue, vision blurred by influence, but a memory buried deep could be drawn out by scent. So he breathed and remembered who he was. He recalled the fireplace and the ashes, the remnants of cold pie, congealed fat and spice, saccharine liquor on glass, the gritty dust of the velvet couch and the scent of hair.

At the scent of Rosalind, he opened his eyes. He remembered last night, that she had fallen asleep beside him and he had followed not long afterwords. The cold had brought her to turn on her side and press against him. Robert was all at once, very aware of how warm she was, how pleasant, so very different from his hard angles. There was a time not too long ago he thought he’d never be anything but elbows and knees. Surely she had outgrown that, if she’d even went through it at all.

He shifted, settling deeper into the cushion of the couch, that he might get comfortable. That gravity, their vanquished foe, might let her fall into the curve of his body.

They had never slept together like this. In the very early days, she had nursed him in her room, and she tended to him until she herself fell asleep from exhaustion at his side, an arms length away. And afterwords, when he was not an invalid, she had told him his room was prepared. To make a full recovery, he needed new memories, a new room that was his.

His room, across the hall from hers had been storage once. It still was, to a point. Extra generators sat in the corner, unused or outdated. He’d asked her once why she had three bedrooms in the house when it was just her, and she replied that it was standard with the model. In the planning, she had wanted a house because it demanded privacy instead of a laboratory. She had merely requested the largest single dwelling home that had the most open space.

He felt her stir slightly and adjust to the space, or perhaps to the coldness of the room, but she pressed herself closer to him on her side, and he could feel the length of her thigh against his—such a pleasant feeling. Yes, he did not care if they spent the better half of the day, or all of it, here on this sofa. Robert dipped his head back lazily on the armrest to return to sleep. Rosalind shifted again, tucking her face into the crook of his shoulder, her hand coming to rest on his sternum.

She exhaled harshly and fell back into a steady rhythm. He forced his breathing to remain the same, lest she move away. He relaxed again.

For a moment she stretched her fingers, then she grasped lightly at the closure of his shirt and buttons. Her hand moved along his abdomen in examination, or curiosity, or both. It traced at the muscle, the crest of the hip, making his breath hitch and heat stir in his groin.

He stopped her hand and she glanced up at him, surprised to find him awake.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he murmured. Unless of course, that _was_ her intent.

There was a rise of color in her ears at being caught, or perhaps at something else?

Sitting up, she cleared her throat and straightened her blouse before she stood. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to manage it. He sat up and began tucking in his shirt and he stood as well. “I was _unprepared_ for—”

He caught that her attention flicked quickly to his lap, and his mouth was suddenly dry.“-for-”

“—New contact. As was I.”

He meant to ask her her meaning to clarify, to hope—but there came several knocks on the parlor door downstairs and the angry sound of bells from the pull.

“ **Lutece?** ” a voice bellowed.

_Damn that man_. His timing was always impeccably inconvenient. He sighed angrily. “What could he _possibly_ want?”

Rosalind’s face had already set in that impassive expression she reserved only for Comstock. “What he always wants,” she said irritably. “Freshen up if you prefer. Do take as much time as you like. Perhaps the man might learn patience.” She fixed her collar. “And basic manners.”

So they hastened to make themselves presentable, or rather, they did what needed be done. He was not going to give the man the honor of presentation. He brushed his teeth, freshened his face, flattened his hair, and he headed downstairs to their guest. It seemed Rosalind was of the same mind, still looking as she did earlier only the barest of presentation apparent.

Comstock stood waiting at the foot of the stairs, tapping impatiently at the railing wood. He must have heard their footsteps. Robert did his best to hide his smirk.

“Have you read the papers?” he said and looked their state over. “Never mind.” Unfolding the newspaper he held tightly, he showed them the front cover.

_Amos Sutherland: Popular Populist._

“Sutherland! Not even a day after Christmas and he’s yapping to the press like the dog he is.”

Rosalind glanced at it, eyebrow upturned in unveiled annoyance. Robert chose to watch Comstock carefully. She might gauge his temperament well, but he would trounce the man if he moved the wrong way near her, and he was _very_ close.

“I need the machine.”

“Are you intending to look for something or find the outcome of it?” Rosalind countered.

As of late, Comstock was using the Contraption to search for events. Drastic or insignificant, he grasped for them, a man desperate to hold onto his power. It was pitiful, really, though he supposed they were the ones enabling him, like aristocrats betting on working class men in a ring.

“I’ve got something in mind that I need to see through,” Comstock said cryptically.

Rosalind exchanged a glance with Robert. So they were in for another round of guesswork and perhaps cleanup. There was a time, in the spring when Comstock had been too bold, too idiotic to understand the ramifications of his reliance on alternate dimensions. He _predicted_ a great storm that damaged Monument Tower, preached it to his masses, and the weather remained perfect for weeks. To save face, he proclaimed prayers had saved the city, while behind closed doors he fussed and fumed and ordered them to find another event.

Robert had not forgotten her scolding, the only time he had heard her raise her voice and even Comstock had stopped his babble and considered how much power Rosalind actually held. He had seen the shrewd realization in his eyes and the very sudden change in poise, like the shedding of a snakeskin.

“And what will we be looking for?”

Comstock clenched his jaw, contemplating his answer. “I need to see how this rivalry continues.”

“You are aware that what happens in a universe _may not_ happen in another.”

“But if it happens in _enough_ —-“

“—Then it happens,” she said plainly. “Or it doesn’t.” She turned on her heel, through with Comstock’s foolishness and started powering up the generators.

Robert took her lead and started up the two upstairs. When he returned, Rosalind was already checking power levels at the control panel and he made to bring out the chalkboard that held timelines and divergences. He was mindful not to smudge the writings, but only because it was her hand. Comstock clung to it like some golden calf or found apocrypha, written in stone and unchangeable. Was he aware how his preachings, his empire were dust? Writings on a wall?

He regressed, struck by juxtaposition of the parable. Were they Daniel interpreting God’s hand, and meanwhile, Comstock, Belshazzar, had made them third in the Kingdom? By some ancient philosophy, some eternal recurrence, were they in an infinite cycle throughout time repeating events, setting them into motion? Would there be, as in the Book of Daniel, a Darius? An usurper, a conquerer that divided and destroyed this City?

He glanced at the newspaper that lay on the desk of journals now. Amos Sutherland. Comstock believed him a threat?

As Congress’ representative, he was the only one to openly and actively challenge Comstock. The only one who _could_. He had his handful of supporters as Comstock did, as rich and as important as his.

_‘….we see it most at Christmastime. The true meaning is lost. We are meant to give, meant to reflect on that which we have been blessed, not seclude ourselves away in prim affairs. Yes, we are all blessed to live in this marvel of a city, but it takes famers and laborers to make it run, make it sustainable.It’s the same here as it is on the Mainland: let farmers name their prices. Set up a system of checks and balances. Let the people be active in their governing, not at the whim of a leader. We cannot run this city as we run the Mainland, it is impossible. What happens when the Dairy famers won’t sell milk to the Hamilton District? When the cost of honey is the same as pearls? Columbia needs to uplift its labor force as it has uplifted itself into the heavens…’_

Comstock shook his head, noticing his interest in the paper.

“Who are these assholes who say how to run this city? _I_ say how to run this city. These revolutionaries, they’re waiting for my head on a silver platter—”

Rosalind flipped the switch to the Contraption, ending the painful soliloquy. She had once said she created the stage for Comstock’s performance, conditioned him to act as he did, like some dog she had taught tricks. A spark of delight ignited in him always when she always tugged on the leash, so to speak.

Robert watched the tear open, his breath catching. It enraptured him always, his doorway, his looking glass. With Rosalind, he had witnessed the first one bloom, seen the beauty of creation, of her face, flourish atom by atom, as the particles that bonded to form him deconstructed to build her. He felt as if the breath was stolen from him, piece by piece, a modern Adam, and Rosalind, a modern Eve who demanded more than a rib for her existence. The Fruit she offered was enough for a million million lifetimes of original sin. He would cross each one to be with her.

It was peering within a tear aperture, witnessing a world dissolve into another, that his mind raced. His thoughts accelerated into singularity. In that moment, he experienced every version of himself, every constant, every variable. The magnitude of it pulled him, like light to a collapsing star, and he was held in suspension from all of space and time.

When the tear stabilized, he finally breathed, and the knowledge was gone. He ached, a million million lifetimes leaving him and he had to look to Rosalind to draw his strength.

She continued as if the opening had not affected her, and he wondered if she had ever experienced the stillness, the singularity.

From across the room, she glanced at him, as she always did when she opened a tear. To reassure, perhaps, that he intended to stay and though she did not smile, he saw that she turned her chin up and her fingers moved fluidly over the controls, a sure sign of her pleased mood.

Comstock stepped closer to discern the tear; Columbia, a balcony covered in roses, a bright day in the spring. They waited a moment to see if anything of note distinguished itself, but the idyllic scene remained the same and Rosalind closed the tear. Robert did not take notes. They could not even determine a time frame for it.

She opened another.

Using the Contraption, as much as they didn’t like to admit, was more guesswork than precision. Rosalind disliked that they were guessing in the dark, no tether to connect to like the first tear, but that was why they continued with tests. Until then, they relied on theories, repeated experiments. They looked for the patterns, looked for the symmetries.

Perhaps it was the same day, the same universe, but the tear opened to a city square, and Robert recognized it as Sons of Liberty Plaza. It seemed early in the day, Sunday, possibly, because there was little activity. Comstock grunted in contemplation at the scene.

The tear flickered a moment and Rosalind glanced at the meters curiously. Robert kept his eyes on it. It flickered again, and the bright spring morning shifted to night, bringing with it a cold draft of snow. By habit, he raised his arm to shield himself, his attire not prepared for the elements.He brushed the snow off his sleeve, but reconsidered when the ice smeared dark on the white fabric— a remainder of soot from the fireplace last night. He grimaced at the inconvenience and the scent of smoke filtered through the opening and he saw ash collecting on the floor.

**“Get them out!”**

He looked up, angry that Comstock had yelled but he and Rosalind were riveted to the tear, now a blazing brightness in the dark room as the buildings in the plaza burned. The yelling grew more indistinct as others joined and they saw about a dozen men scramble to reach doors and break them down.

**“They’re still inside! Tell Amos! It’s a fucking set—”**

An explosion rattled his teeth, and a wave of heat washed over him. Immediately, his cheeks grew hot and his throat tightened. He drew back as another loud burst started—

“—Rosalind!” he coughed, covering his nose and mouth. Thick dark smoke funneled into the room.

She flipped the switch as the flames arced toward them.

Rubbing at his eyes, he went to the nearest window and opened it to let the air in. “The bloody hell was that?” he murmured between coughs.

While they were accustomed to uneventful tears, occasionally, those with rather disturbing contents emerged. He was not so surprised at the existence of the tears but more of discerning just what he witnessed. How he wished they kept Father’s rifle within easy reach than in an armoire upstairs.

Comstock rubbed at his beard and through the smoke, Robert could smell burnt hair.

Returning to the chalkboard, he began to record the events.

“Open another one,” Comstock said.

Robert paused his writing and glanced at Rosalind. She gestured for him to remain still.

“ _What_ are you looking for?” she asked again, firmer.

The Prophet remained silent for a moment.

“Whatever you intend on doing may not have the same outcome you desire.”

His lips thinned and disappeared under his mustache. “I just need to _see_.”

She observed Comstock in that cool, calculating stare she reserved for men that bored her and returned to the controls, making minor increments on the dials. She pulled the lever once more and Robert watched with mild curiosity the tear opening.

Together, they peered into a universe that looked no different than this. There was a procession, mourners, a casket. Comstock spoke at a podium from the steps of the Columbian Court House in Washington Square.

_“…Though we did not always see eye to eye, he was a man I respected, a man who upheld the purest American ideals. He sought a Columbia that was strong, unified. Where every man woman and child sought to be a definition unto themselves, just as this great City has pushed every boundary and expectation. And it is with a heavy heart thatI say he was taken from us far too soon, far too selfishly by those who did not want to work, that sought to divide us. I will not rest until we have done him justice, until we have created a Columbia that Amos Sutherland would be proud of…”_

The tear closed suddenly, and Robert glanced at Rosalind again to see that she had done so purposely.

He looked at Comstock now, his unhappiness now replaced with a pleased expression.

“Thank-you. That was all I needed,” he said quietly, nodding at Rosalind, turning on his heel, and leaving.

Robert made certain he heard the parlor and front doors close before looking at her. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pursed in deep thought, but she still glanced sidelong at him, sensing his attention. Then she powered off the generator closest to her and he followed suit again, taking care of the ones upstairs.

She was writing on the chalkboard when he returned, drawing a slow circle around the two events she had just recorded.

A haze lingered still, but the chill was returning, and he closed the window. “I do hope he does not try anything foolish.”

“He will,” she answered distantly, still studying the timelines. “It’s in his nature.”

How a man so reckless as he got this far without their help was beyond him. Booker DeWitt was never far in his thoughts when he thought of Comstock, how easily, how deep a man could fall into his own grave. Robert crossed his arms and took in all the events on the board, eyes darting from the insignificant to the drastic.

“I suppose if I’d built my life on lies, I’d be the pearl of paranoia.”

“What is your theory on the ripple?” she said, turning to face him, her face much softer. She was excited, curious, at the new phenomenon. He had almost forgotten!

“The location remained the same, but the time did not…”

“Yes,” she said, almost breathless. “Time _changed_. It fluctuated, flipped like a switch. A _coin_ ,” she added.

“It shifted dimensions? To an event we were looking for?”

“I theorize we’re influencing tears. Comstock at least, unfortunately, for this morning’s viewing.”

“Subconsciously, perhaps?”

“For now, that is the theory. We shall have to perform tests.”

He nodded. Yes, this was quite an interesting turn of events. If they could harness the power of the subconscious, or better yet, harness the power of the human mind, the potential of such universal knowledge was within their grasp. If they could pinpoint a universe that they wanted with merely a thought—

“—We must also put forward that we are predestined to open such tears,” Robert added.

“That no matter what, we will always open up to the same contents?”

“Yes—“ Another thought struck him. “—You say _influencing_ , as if we are opening up tears that already exist and are actively seeking, but what if by _influencing,_ we are **creating** worlds. A constant flux of expanding and collapsing dimensions. We are **willing** them into existence.”

Her head canted slightly as she absorbed his theories, and she looked at him as if he was the most interesting thing in the room.He grew bold under her gaze, stretching, even though he was not tired, twisting his torso to see if her eyes followed.

She smiled, taking a step toward him. “Such good fortune that you always have the best ideas.” She reached up and smoothed a lock of his hair that had fallen out of place. “You always hold our best traits. It is curious—“

“—Why _curious_?” he dared to ask, to interrupt her. He considered the fondness of her action and those of earlier when they had slept. He was unsure of her proximity and the feeling that had risen in his stomach because of it.

“That of all universes, all variables, I am so lucky to find the best version of us. Perhaps we _are_ predestined to open the tears that we have.”

Robert opened his mouth to speak but his stomach grumbled and he sheepishly grinned.

Rosalind still had that soft expression about her face as she strode past him.

“Come, we’ve still got a bit of pie left.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One question this chapter:
> 
> (1) What does Comstock have planned?
> 
>  
> 
> As always, chapter commentary and extras available at Meteora blog.


	17. Auribus teneo lupum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosalind considers that a missed lunch meeting might be more than it seems.

_"I hold a wolf by the ears”_

* * *

 

**December 30, 1894, Sunday**

“Do you think he may have forgotten?”

Robert was always so anxious when he presented someone to her. Afraid, perhaps, that he might fall into the criteria of men that disappointed her if his suggestions fell short. She would never think less of him. His judgement was as good as hers, though that did not stop her from thinking _less_ of Perrin Baudelaire.

Rosalind tapped impatiently at the table, her mind elsewhere.

The image of Columbia in flames had not left. Not since the worried mother at Harper’s, not since the day after Christmas when Comstock had wanted to see a rival defeated. How Comstock chose to act with the knowledge was not of her concern, but if the repercussions were drastic, enough to threaten the city, she might intervene. Or at the very least, caution him. He could very well be his _own_ downfall, certainly not the first time he would be. Gambling on tears was no different than gambling on horses, or whatever vices Dewitt fell into.

Perhaps there was only _one_ Anna Dewitt across all universes. Each Booker Dewitt, each Zachary Comstock, selling her to another because their constant was an endless cockup of gambles.

_“…Yes two nights ago…Several of them. Absolutely ghastly. Poor Margaret. Her husband and now two of her sons…”_

_“…The Wards and the Flecks are amongst the missing as well…”_

Rosalind inclined her head. There was an unusual level of chatter in the restaurant, very hushed. Enough to take note, though Robert stared anxiously at the door, hoping his prospect would arrive.

But she was well equipped to deal with a man who did not show—quite accustomed to it. Across the table, she admired his features. Robert was the only man who had been waiting for _her,_ so eager for her arrival. Witnessing his face for the first time, watching the veil of a universe fall before her, she knew there would always be distinction. There would always be difference.

He sighed and set about straightening his teacup on the saucer; a quarter turn clockwise and back again as he always did.

“Forgive me, Rosalind,” he started, “Perhaps I was too careless in my—“

She waved her hand to stop him and picked up her fork. “Perhaps he has been held up. Or fallen ill,” she offered. Most often that was not the case, but she did not care, only that she meant to console him.

When she divided the last portion of her slice of pie and brought it to her mouth, Robert looked briefly upset. “Regardless, I’ve been terrible company this morning.”

In truth, they both had. She had been concerned with previous viewings and he had all but kept his eyes on the door.

“Oh, I imagine we’re terrible company in any capacity. I much prefer to keep to _myself._ ”

He finally smiled, his expression easing.

“You haven’t eaten much. Are you still hungry?” she asked. At the very least, they’d not waste this visit to New Eden.

“Believe it or not, but I’ve actually had several cups of tea. And,” he looked at the empty basket of crumbs at the center of the table, “Whatever was in that basket.”

Rosalind smiled too. “Well, I’d say—“

_“…What do you suppose happened?…”_

_“…Oh a tragic accident. So many_ **_lives…_ ** _”_

Robert raised his eyebrows in question.

She pursed her lips. “There’s been talk of… _something_. Have you heard?” She gestured to the room and the increased chatter. Above the clinking of plates and utensils, there was a buzz, a hum.

He listened for a moment, then shook his head.

“If you’re done, I should like to investigate.”

Immediately, he nodded and wiped the corners of his mouth and stood.

Rosalind hid the dangerous quirk about her lips behind her napkin and let him hold her coat. He was always so eager to drop what he was doing to assist her, to leave his entire universe for her.

They left the Cafe and as soon as they had stepped on the street, Robert inclined his head. “What have you gathered?”

“I’m not certain, but it sounds as if several people are missing. An accident of some sort.”

“You think it a tear?”

“If it is, it’s rather disconcerting. What is, has, or will occur that we, in some other universe, are opening up malevolent tears in this one? Or,” she scanned the skyline. “We must strengthen our theory about spontaneous tears.”

Their continuing theory was that these tears were perhaps accidental, or even reckless. Robert did not like to believe they would be so uncaring, in any universe. Regardless, they had to have been made by them. There was no other way. The ramifications of spontaneous tears, true tears that had opened without human intervention, chilled her. Was some event echoing throughout all of time?

“How do we know this isn’t Comstock?”

Yes, she had considered their most recent tear viewings, but Comstock had had his eye on _one_ man. Perhaps this was the difference? Had he struck, thinking the outcome would be as it was in another universe, only for it to diverge and fail in this one?

She drew a slow breath. “If that bloody man is at our home again to fix his mistake, I’m going to strangle him.”

“Please, allow me,” he said sardonically.

“I’m touched,” she said. “But as I’ve said, I’ll not have you serve as executioner.”

“You coddle me too much, _sweet sister._ ”

She did not hide her smirk this time. “Oh go on then. What is the manner of your eagerness to handle our more disagreeable tasks?”

“Because I am _here_. And you needn’t always stain your hands so red.”

She glanced sidelong at him seriously then. He was always so contrite when it came to his spells. As if she was inconvenienced by them. Never had she been.

“Robert—”

“—So where shall we head to first? Flag down a newsboy?”

“Let’s. Though if that turns up nothing, I may try a telegram to Arthurton. He is always in the know about sordid affairs.”

If that was not a viable avenue, they would go back and look through their writings. Better they be prepared for Comstock than get blindsided. How she hated that man. So brash, so foolish. The wrong man to be given a large amount of power in a short amount of time. But the amount of his coin currently outweighed his lacking qualities. And she could control him, for the time being. Control the tears, control the man.

They reached Grand Central Depot, the foot traffic increasing by seven fold as they encountered the beginnings of the midday rush. Columbians were leaving church, heading out for lunch, and visiting friends in other districts of the City. The station was the busiest for gondola transfers, people from middle and upper class blending to get to their destinations.

The Grand Platform had been built after the city lifted, it originally being a mere fifth of what it currently was. The City Planners had scrambled to relieve the demand and Fink had stepped up to the challenge, initiating and completing the expansion in less than a month. She had been impressed, though railways and clockwork were where he excelled.

They were to catch the Emporia gondola at 12:15 on platform 2, but after the Hamilton gondola departed at 12:07, which was of course, _after_ the gondolas from Jefferson, Franklin Center, Finkton Docks, Finkton Proper, and Liberty Yards arrived at 12:05.

Rosalind glanced at the large clock at the center square, grimacing. 12:04. Robert glanced up as well, secured her arm that was loosely about his, and directed them away from the center towards the shops. Under the awning of the Salty Oyster, they heard the transfer bell ring twice, followed by the squealing of brakes on steel cables as doors slid open and the wave of passengers disembarked.

Now, she was quite accustomed to a rush, having spent the most recent years on a university campus, but even this required the most adept pedestrian to study the flow of traffic. If one looked carefully, one could take advantage of how those that disembarked from Jefferson steered clear from the Finkton gondolas, creating a small opening near the center of the pandemonium. One could cut across the entire crowd once they made it past the outer ring.

“Shall we?” Robert prepared.

She gripped his arm tighter and started a determined pace. While Robert was more keen to move with the flow of traffic, darting and stepping around, she made her own way through it. She was a woman, she was well-known, and after enough time, people learned to step out of her way.

They reached the center, navigating through the thinnest part of the crowd and began to enter the current again.

She held onto Robert again, making certain he would not be lost. At that moment, someone barreled right into them, knocking them back a step. He did not stop, and Robert was upset. “ _Excuse you-_ “

She gripped his arm and he stopped, concerned. She pulled them to a corner where it was quiet, away from the bustle of the crowd.

“Are you alright?” He all but put his arms on her shoulders, tilting his head to search her face. She hoped it did not look so compromising from a distance. His face was so near she could see her reflection in his eyes, and she knew he would not draw back until she answered.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, looking down at her hand and the sliver of paper that had been slipped into it. She had accepted it without question. The letters were scrawled and hasty, written by an unsteady and uncaring hand.

_Meet me in the apiary._

Robert scowled. “Surely he could have passed this along more decently.”

Rosalind smiled thinly. “You assume all men are decent.”

“I _assume_ that a man should know how to treat a lady, no matter his or her standing. A life without decency is unbearable.”

Rosalind smiled. “So then, shall we meet this _indecent_ man?”

“Interesting location, that. I have only had the displeasure of being stung once. Are we allergic?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You assume _I’ve_ had the displeasure more than once?”

“I _recall_ a bee’s nest in the oak tree near Pippa’s stable and a general bad feeling accompanies the memory. I’m fairly certain it’s not mine. I assume it’s _yours_.”

“It is,” she confirmed, taking his arm once more to head to the apiary. “And it is such a long walk from Girton to the Laboratories,” she added.

* * *

 

A gondola to Liberty Yards and a transfer at Patriot’s Way brought them to Freedom Fields. Primarily, the district’s purpose was to simulate rural areas, an agricultural center for infrastructure stability. There were farms, coops, livestock, nurseries, and bees. The insects were an oversight the City Planners did not properly account for. It had been Fink who demanded and insisted their importance, and she had thrown in her full support. Without bees to pollinate flowers, crops wouldn’t grow. Their sustainability would be nonexistent.

Several families that would not have passed City Planning were suddenly prioritized ahead of upper class families and others alike because as beekeepers, their responsibility _was_ infrastructure.There was one main apiary that was responsible for honey production, all others were more or less spread out on the farms to diversify bee population and pollination. It was this, a brick building with an inner courtyard, that she assumed was the meeting place. She had only been here once, when the mortar was still being laid and the only noise that emanated came from bricklayers and carpenters.

Now, as they approached the steps of the apiary, the hum of millions of bees could be felt as if she were surrounded by a full orchestra that plucked a deep, single trilling note. At her side, Robert was surveying each doorway and behind each column for their contact. But even as he experienced the hum, he stretched and opened his jaw as if yawning, clenching and unclenching his fists as if he was in the beginnings of a spell.

She glanced at him seriously, but he shook his head. “It’s similar. Let’s go,” he said, opening the heavy iron gate that led to the courtyard. It was Sunday, and the building was empty of workers.

Her ability to access a situation quickly set into motion. Sunlight filtered without hinderance into the courtyard, casting the covered walkways around it in deep shadow. Easy for someone to remain hidden. She hated this clandestine business of shadows, so she whispered to Robert.

“Stand there,” she pointed out, directing him to the darkest corner.

He frowned. “Why?”

“In case of any _incidents_.” She had gone on earlier about her reluctance to have him act as enforcer, but as a precaution and safeguard, she had no qualms, and certainly no doubt of his ability to handle himself should the situation require.

At this, he nodded, his posture changing, and she wondered briefly how many noses he had broken and ribs he’d cracked in that Gentlemen’s club of his.

She, however, stepped into the courtyard, to be viewed from all angles with Robert at her back.

“Well, I’m here,” she announced. “You’ve drawn my curiosity. Rather rudely I might add.”

It was her experience, and not Robert’s, that the amount of these meetings she had had was irrelevant, only that they were always the same. The rooms where they happened always changed. She had constructed a city over dinner. Or likewise, exchanged with an English Lord over tea that she would defend his character in court.

They always came to her, always wanting. Suitor, or scientist, or senator.

This apiary was no doubt the most creative. What sort of man called her this time? While this vantage point gave her little sightline into the dark corridors, she was able to partially escape the immense hum that emanated from the walls, air pouring through the courtyard into the negative pressure created by billions of tiny beating wings.

“I apologize for the encounter, Madame,” a voice called out, muffled slightly by the hum. A man emerged onto the edge of the courtyard from the entrance, his pockmarked face appearing more grooved than normal under the harsh light. “It’s in both our interests that we don’t be seen in each other’s company.”

She raised her eyebrow. “I’ll make that discernment myself.” She did not recognize the man, but it irritated her that he had made such an assumption.

“Amos was right to notify you,” he continued, unaffected by her comment. “He always said you were different.”

“Sutherland,” she stated. Perhaps Comstock _had_ been so brash. “What is it you want, Mr.—”

“—Sutherland would like your expertise on a matter.”

He did not reveal his name, and she grew to change her ambivalence to dislike. She assessed him from her position, his brown tweed and unruly hair beneath his cap.

“—Clay,” Robert called behind her, revealing himself and remaining on the opposing edge of the courtyard. “Silas Bertrand Clay.”

Clay regarded him carefully.

“Surely there are others with the Authority you could approach? Perhaps _less_ clandestine,” she added.

“No one else has put the city in the sky.”

Ah, so it was her _particular_ skills they needed, or so they thought. She did not offer her help so carelessly, and she chose the manner in which she did so.

“There was a fire two nights ago, an explosion in the Sons of Liberty plaza,” Clay began. “Several people remain unaccounted for, Perrin Baudelaire included. All men who are missing are supporters large and small of Amos Sutherland. At least forty.”

“And? My work revolves around unstable elements.” The _instability_ of tears was another matter.

“As I said, Sutherland would like your expertise, Madame, on the matter of unsuspension—”

“—There _is_ no matter of unsuspension. The Lutece Particle is in a constant state of superposition. It will _never_ fall.” Why was she discussing this?

Clay nodded as if this was what he wanted to hear. “Can you provide an official report on the matter? The buildings in question, have…” he paused, searching for the right word. “… ' _Desuspended’_ as the investigation has noted.”

“If there has already been an investigation, why bother with a report?” It bothered her, yes, that the information was incorrect, but so did his insistence.

“Sutherland believes this accident was an act of malice and the report biased by supporters of Comstock.”

Rosalind glanced at Robert briefly before asking Clay, “And how are you certain _we_ aren’t supporters of Comstock?”

“I’m not. You do business with him, yes, that connection is known. But you are never at the sermons or any other events.”

“If you are so uncertain, why come to us at all?”

“Amos Sutherland is a good man, and he has only ever said good things about you, Madame.”

“Even the devil can cite Scripture, Mr. Clay.”

“Precisely. How can a man so conveniently command a city with prophecy?” he rebounded, but even as he spoke, he removed his cap and swatted at a bee that had come too close to him.

“With fear,” Robert said, and the corners of her lips raised as he drew nearer to her. “If what you say is true, forty men dead, Sutherland has lost many of his supporters. And he is looking for new ones.”

Clay huffed, upset that his hand had been revealed.

Robert was kinder, more considerate than she, but they were still the _same_. He possessed a ferocity and presence when he wanted to. She would kiss his cheek for his cleverness and intimidation.

With this information, she considered their location, the bee fields, and she was sure she could find a Populist name attached to it. But she was not interested in politics, only funding, and there was only one man in this city so desperate for her work that even Doctor Faust might reconsider.

Sutherland had no true interest in their work, no Populist did, if their lack of support for Columbia’s development in the early days proved anything. He only wished to gain the upper hand against Comstock.

Rosalind crossed her arms. “I believe in chances, Mr. Clay. An opportunity cannot be taken if one never allows it to be presented, just as I have allowed you to make your case.”

As she spoke, a bee, perhaps the very same bee Clay had swatted away, returned to them, attracted to the flowers near her or the colors on her dress. The three of them watched as it landed on the cuff of her left arm.

She paused, and with her other hand, picked up the insect with two fingers. The men observed as she held it up and crushed it between her fingers.

“Tell Sutherland,” she continued without missing a beat, “He will get his report in two days time. However, it is _not_ to be taken as a show of support, but merely of principle. I believe in scientific integrity, especially when it comes to my work.”

“Thank-you, Madame. I understand you do this at great risk of your relationship with Comstock—“

“ _Great risk_? Hardly.” He knew nothing of the _risks_ she had taken. The very _existence_ of this universe could have ceased because she dared to push the limitations of reality, to look upon her own face and see it smiling back. No, there was only ever one person who had taken the greatest risk of all.

Clay’s surprise of her coldness was evident but he nodded. “Two days, “ he confirmed. “Madame, Sir.” He turned to leave.

They watched him until the heavy gate swung closed and he disappeared from view. Robert crossed the courtyard to her in the center.

“Forty men dead?”

“ _Missing,”_ she iterated, because that was what Clay had been careful to say. There was something that lurked at the back of her mind, a memory.

Forty was a particular number, one that held biblical distinction for trial and tribulation. Noah endured rain for forty days and nights, the Israelites wandered the desert for forty years, Elijah and Christ fasted for forty days. Surely Comstock, in his theatrics, would choose such an arbitrary number for no other reason. And it was that number that brought to mind a tear session with him the other week. _40 at Revere Way._ She had written it and put it aside.

“Are you thinking they might all be in the same place?”

“Hrmm? Oh, I don’t know what I’m thinking,” she said off-hand.

“Go on, then. You’ve got a look.”

She looked up from the flowers. “’40 at Revere Way.’”

Robert strained to recall the phrase.

“That day for portraits,” she told him. “You were exhausted that day, I hardly think you’d remember it.”

“I do recall that day being very taxing.”

“Yes, you’d nearly punched Comstock.”

“A pity I didn’t.”

“Take small satisfaction that you have, in one universe, brother.”

“Sometimes it is not enough, knowing I have done a thing elsewhere, when I should like to do it _here._ ”

The humor had fallen from his voice and she was unsure what his meaning was. When she looked at his face to determine so, he turned to scan the darkness of the corridors.

“We witnessed the fire,” he said, still facing away. “But if these men are _missing_ , their bodies must be hidden for a reason.” He looked back at her. “What’s at Revere Way?”

She observed him for a moment, his countenance resembling hers in its cool temperament. In this moment, she wondered if the mirroring was due to dissonance, his absorbing her memories and mannerisms, or if this was something that he already possessed.

“Nothing of note. Farms. A decent walk from here,” she offered. If she recalled, Revere Way and Sons of Liberty Plaza were in this district and not that far from the apiary.

He nodded. “Perhaps we shall still make this meeting of ours.” He sniffed. “Though, he’s cold clay now.”

Rosalind winced at the expression, not for indelicacy, but that it was not one she had ever used. It was slang he had picked up in days at Cambridge.

He rolled his neck and stretched his jaw. “This hum is rather like the beginnings of a spell. Shall we?”

Robert offered her his arm once more and they left the apiary.

The weather today was fair. They stuck to the city most days, the dense buildings protecting them from the brunt of the weather. The winter was still far from warming, but out here in the rural districts, it was only the stench of cattle and livestock. The air quality today was particularly awful, a heavy screen of air lingering, intensifying the smell. It reminded her of the Mainland. In England, their summer home was not near any farms, but Americans were still so simple, their Southern States driven by crop, much of their land still unsettled.

From the building, they turned from Gold Street onto Dawes Lane, passing the large sign that sat at the junction.

_Columbia Apiary_

_Est. 1893 by the Figg Family_

Her mind made the inevitable connections. Theodore Figg was a very visible supporter of Sutherland. He was a beekeeper, as was his father, and grandfather, he touted. This business with bees had thrust them into a whole new class, one that they fit into like a glove. The Upper class was suddenly _interested_ in all the workings of beekeeping. She suspected now that he had burned two nights ago, for his endorsement of the Populists, his sentimentality of his poorer upbringing. His daughters would grow up fatherless, married off perhaps to one of the Founders’ own beekeeping heirs, and the Figg name would slowly fade from memory, like the paint on this sign.

Just as easily, she erased that future, and considered that in another universe, Haddie Figg remained unmarried unlike her sisters, fought to keep her inheritance, her independence, was as versed in law and agriculture as a Southern politician and made Comstock reconsider his actions.

“You’ve a look again,” Robert said.

“Considering the possibilities, considering the names.” Forty men was a bold move. _She_ was in the right mind to give Comstock a good slap across the face for his idiocy. Each tear they opened, each universe they interacted with, including their own, was unprecedented, let alone the ethics of them. Those, too, were a variable. What happens normally in one universe might be completely unacceptable in another. Her only consolation, was that if a man died in one universe, she knew he lived in another. It was the only constant that could be true.

They had not even pursued the theory of predetermination. Instead of actively influencing a timeline and events, there was the possibility their actions, each tear they opened, were already chosen for them by some intelligent design or law of the universe.

While she enjoyed the back and forth with Robert, she was curious of the actual legal response this would incite. There was no better subject to converse with Arthurton. He would love the discourse.

Rosalind paused for the slightest of moments, enough for Robert to notice.

“Arthurton,” she realized. While he was no means a supporter of the Populist Party in any way, he was someone who was rather outspoken when he wanted to be. If Comstock was ridding his political enemies, surely a British Lord, with a record of debauchery, closely associated with Virgil Gardner, a US attorney with unclear allegiance to Congress, could make an appearance on a list.

“I’m certain he’s fine. Probably making a better day of Sunday than we have.”

There was truth in his words, but she had to be _sure_. This business with Comstock, with Arthurton even, has proven to be a double-edged sword, and just like Father’s rapiers, its lethality was dependent on how she wielded it.

Now Robert stopped on their walk, and her mind was elsewhere, the abruptness of it causing her to dig her heel deeper into the hard earth. Concerned, she glanced back at him.

“What is it?”

She had come to learn Robert’s nuances very quickly, and the firmness of his jaw, the setting of his mouth into a tight grimace, was always a sure sign of his anger—a rare expression.

His eyes narrowed, perhaps the angriest she had seen him.

He nudged his chin in the direction of the adjacent field and it was at that moment she noticed the smell of cattle had mixed with another stench, not unlike Fink’s vigor that had burned her hands not too long ago, and she knew it was the smell of burnt flesh.

Famers did not plow fields during the winter, crops grown in greenhouses because of the intense cold at this altitude, but together, they stood on the corner of Dawes and Revere Way, staring at an empty field with freshly moved earth.

“That’s it, then,” Robert said quietly.

Rosalind nodded. “Let’s go.”

To know with certainty, to prove a hypothesis, as any good scientist, they had to gather data. But if they began digging in search of these men, they would only be digging their own graves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions:
> 
> -Could Sutherland ever offer them incentive enough to pledge their support?
> 
> -What is Comstock thinking killing 40 men? Like he seriously did that in the game.


	18. Aude alteram partem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert wonders if the events of the day are auspicious for the new year.

 

 ****_“Hear the other side”_

* * *

 

**January 4, 1895, Friday**

When she had taken the flask off the flame, he knew that this crimson concoction was balanced. Its aroma was pleasant; sweeter, heavier, than all the others before. But Rosalind was always careful about managing her expectations. She remained as concentrated and focused as ever, even as she eyed him from across the counter.

Their outing to Freedom Fields and the discovery that followed did not sit well with either of them. Comstock had not come to them in the days since and they had retreated to their routine with fervor. The dittany arrived earlier than expected, allowing them a much preferred subject to hone in on.

Robert worried for her. He understood her coldness following the Authority meetings, her usual unyielding focus over equations, but in this experiment, she had barely eaten, barely spoken to him. Meanwhile, the bottle of meade had emptied over the course of the week.

He knew he was not without his own scrutiny. She had observed him in that dissecting eye of hers, as if he might be struck with a spell, or as she normally did when Comstock was in the room, worried that she could not predict what might happen.

It was a blessing then, that they were capable of fixating on a a subject, shirking such normalcies as dedicated meals and social outings to focus on work. Such were the traits of a good scientist. He could hardly recall his actions between then and now that weren’t pertaining to infusions. The dittany had come in, yes, and maybe an invitation to a New Year’s celebration, but there was also a telegram from Arthurton.

Rosalind had sent one to him, and he had responded quick sharp, thankfully. As she stated, he certainly was _well_ informed of the situation and had stopped by for a brief moment to convey his thoughts in full.

There had been a gathering of some sort for supporters in the Populist Party, but it was notable that Sutherland was not in attendance. Some time after midnight a fire started due to what _authorities_ attributed to ‘a mixture of intoxication and improper use of Fink’s newest vigor.’ There is no official count of the deceased, only of those unaccounted for. Bodies were “missing” because the buildings had fallen.

And buildings with the Lutece Particle did not _fall_ , fire or otherwise, unless they were _tampered with_. But their report for Sutherlandwas carefully worded to explain that a fire cannot influence the Lutece Particle and offered “direct human intervention,” as a possible reason.

Maybe this business with Sutherland would end soon enough. He did not like the assumption that Rosalind would be so easily swayed, indeed that that Clay fellow was so boorish, but he knew of him from the papers.

Rosalind tested the temperature of the flask with the back of her hand now and nodded.

They would start with the blood test. It wasn’t fresh, but Robert procured the sample he had ready in a shallow dish and she let fall a single drop into it. He held his breath, watching as the blood receded from the infusion. It didn’t boil or thin or congeal, and Rosalind glanced up at him, smiling.

He must have looked foolish with how wide he grinned.

“Shall we do a live test?” she asked.

Once again, Robert went to the mud room and selected a buck. Holding it steady, he stroked its chest as Rosalind made a tiny incision on its leg. Then he placed it on the counter, she dabbed a small amount on the wound and they took a step back.

He expected another incident, another malformed tumorous mass of flesh and hair, but the rabbit remained the same and the wound grew smaller until the skin mended into a faint pink welt. Before he could do anything, Rosalind was on it in a heartbeat, carrying the animal and examining the new turn of events.

“Extraordinary.” She checked its eyes and ears, grasped at its fur to see if it came loose.

“Yes.” It amazed him always, her skill at determining when something failed or succeeded. “Success?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. She always had the final say on experiments.

“We shall have to perform more tests,” she replied, and then her expression softened, a rare smile forming. “But yes, success.”

“Easy enough,” he said, though their weeks of undesired results and sleepless nights spoke otherwise.

“Everything that’s easy was hard first.” She handed him the rabbit. “Just think, I once had to do all this myself.”

“You still do,” he grinned again, heading to the hutch.

“Yes, but it’s so much _easier,”_ she called after him.

When he returned, she was scouring over their notes, writing down measurements and checking their documentation. They had taken exceptional notes this experiment. Rosalind was keen they have a more structured record system now that there were two of them. Before then, she wrote in any available journal and he fit several unrelated subjects in his current ones.

“Now that we’ve got a positive reaction,” she started, “We’ll have to recreate this formula precisely. Though we’ve done most of it half a dozen times and more, it’s the last steps we’ve found to be the most crucial. This time, I’ll prepare the dittany and you’ll conduct the execution and compare results to this one—“

She paused. “Did you hear that?”

He listened for a moment. It was faint, but it sounded like voices from the foyer. “If that’s bloody Comstock—“

“—No,” she said, standing up to investigate. “It’s a woman.”

“Gwen?” He grew slightly alarmed. There had never been a situation she raised her voice at a guest. Unless someone upset with them had come in?

_“Where is she?!?”_

He was out of the kitchen first. The door to the front room flung open and a dark-haired woman burst through, Gwen looking very upset following after her.

“Lady Comstock, you can’t-“

Robert was surprised. “ _Lady Comstock,_ ” he addressed, but she looked right passed him.

“You!” she exclaimed and jabbed her finger at Rosalind. “You _whore._ ”

 _Bloody hell_. It was like a completely different woman. Her face was absolutely livid, like some siren of Odysseus’ time, all semblance of beauty gone with the ugly turn of anger. Lady Comstock or not, he was not going to let her speak to Rosalind in that manner.

She raised her hand to stop him and approached her. “I _assure_ you Madame,” she seethed. “My sexual interest in your _dear_ prophet is non-existent.”

She took a slow deep breath. “Furthermore, the man is _quite_ sterile.”

Lady Comstock winced. Rosalind had just dealt a serious blow to her person. Comstock of course had made their reproductive attempts privy to them, swore evidence of her blood. If anything, she should have wondered about her husband’s seed. The realization must have hit her, because her expression faltered for a moment and it retaliated yet again.

“That’s a lie! Come and get your little bastard! I want her _out of my house._ ” She turned on her tailored heel and made to stomp out.

“You wish to know so terribly? I’ll tell you then.”

The woman paused. First Lady and Great Madame glared at each other.

“You are tired of lies, then you should have the truth: your husband _repulses_ me. I have more a relationship with his funding than the man himself. He knows this.”

Her face did not change and Rosalind continued.

“When your…marriage failed to produce a child, he came to me. _Not_ in such a puerile way, of course. I would never agree to such a request as _that_. There are other ways to bring a human into this world. Look around you. I am a woman of science, and I tell you, that is the source of the child.”

 _“Science_? You think me a fool, Lutece?”

“That is dependent on your thoughts of I being a _whore_.”

Perhaps it was that Rosalind brought up the nerve of her former life, but it affected the woman enough to knock some decency back into her.

“The correct form is _Lady_ ,” she huffed, not displaying an ounce of the grace a lady of her standing and religion should.

“And the correct form, my _lady_ , is Madame.”

Lady Comstock turned her chin up, looking at Rosalind first, then Gwen and Robert and left.

They all waited until they heard the front door slam shut.

“Madame Lutece,” Gwen said, stepping forward. “I apologize that I could not stop her.”

“It’s no fault of your own. The attempt is noted. I don’t believe anything could have stopped her from confronting me,” she replied, although she looked at Robert.

“I raised my voice at her.”

Rosalind looked at her for a moment. “I thought you handled the situation well. Now then,” she sighed, “I thank you for doing your best to tame her. No more guests for the day.”

“You may leave early,” Robert said, sensing that Rosalind required time to themselves to discuss this turn of events.

Gwen nodded, taking her leave.

“Oh, and Gwendolyn,” Rosalind called after her. “Do join us for brunch this Sunday. New Eden, 11 o’clock.”

He waited until she had closed the foyer door fully, and when he looked for Rosalind, she sat at their desk, already procuring a new vinyl for record.

“ _Lady Comstock_ ,” she began, viciously, “seems to believe the child is a result of some errant act of _carnality_ between myself and her beloved Prophet—”

He seethed. The audacity, the revolting assumption that that woman had created. Absolutely abhorrent. Never had he encountered a person, or indeed _persons_ , as she shared her name with her husband, so superficial and reprehensible as they. So misinformed and ignorant. He did not remain angry on a subject for very long, but this issue with Comstock was wearing thin. As was becoming routine, they would discuss the current matter, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to deal with every situation and remain well-mannered, even if he was with Rosalind.

Robert exhaled slowly, stepping into the drawing room and fetching a glass to pour some scotch. This sort of situation called for a pipe, but tobacco took too much time to prepare, and his supply was running low as of late.

He downed the drink and mused on the warmth that washed over him. In dealing with Comstock’s nature, they were learning much more about theirs, as far as habits were concerned. He refilled it again for Rosalind and went to check on her.

“Ta,” she said, looking up at him from the chair. She drank most of it in one gulp.

She licked her lips slowly and focused on the lamp behind him as she swirled the remaining liquid in the glass. “She was never happy with my arrangement with Comstock.”

He remained silent. This business with the Miracle Child happened when he was still adjusting. There were parts he had been made to forget when her memories collided with his. What he knew and what he’d been made to know were completely different.

“I suppose neither are you,” she continued, “But the lie _we_ uphold is a paradox, brother.”

How telling that the two greatest lies in Columbia were both known to them, both construed by them. But if the truth of him became known, it would not affect them as it would Comstock.

“Our lie is only necessary for theirs. My existence and standing are not reliant on the public’s perception of me.”

Rosalind sniffed. “If only she’d accept what we’ve given her. What her own _husband_ couldn’t,” she muttered and finished the last of her drink. “What a pity,” she continued, “The _duty_ of a Lady is to bear her _Lord_ a child. All that religion, and she could not even do that.”

She got up from her chair and he followed her into the foyer as she refilled her glass.

“She need keep only one secret, tell _one_ lie,” she said before taking another drink. “But even that has proven _too difficult_ for her.” She shook her head, looking at some far off corner, perhaps recalling a previous incident, and he wondered if at some point Annabelle Watson Comstock had been enthusiastic of Rosalind, had invited her for tea, or spoke of her kindly in social circles. And perhaps her husband began spending increasing hours at a time with the Great Madame, and spoke of her marvels, and then procured an infant she did not birth that he claimed was his child.

“And bloody Comstock,” she spat. “The man has no bollocks, in _every_ sense. But a man can be a false prophet, a man can come from _another universe_ , but a woman cannot claim to be a mother or a scientist. In the eyes of society, she is merely barren or whore.”

Robert was unsure if he should say anything, not that he _had_ anything to reply with. He had longed to see the Rosalind that existed before him, before Columbia, and he realized with a heavy heart that that was the farthest from what he desired. She fought tooth and nail, and it was foolish of him to think that had changed in any way.

She began searching in the dresser for another bottle.

“That’s the last of the scotch,” he said.

Rosalind exhaled sharply, setting her glass down on the surface harder than usual, and rested her hands on the furniture.

He placed his hand gently on her back.

She shrugged away. “I’m fine.“

“You’re not.”

She glanced at him sidelong, considering him, that careful eye of hers. She sighed again, crossing her arms, then leaned against him, her cheek pressing against his shoulder. “I do not like this baiting nonsense, but the woman needed to know. She was so _ghastly_ misinformed, it was pitiful.”

Tentatively, he brought his hand to her shoulder to give her an embrace.

“Does she really think me that tasteless? How dare she assume that I would sleep with her _beloved_ Prophet. Or any man. That is my business alone.”

Unbidden, his thoughts drew to the subject. _Had_ she been with anyone? Even as he was her, he realized it too was none of his business, but even more unbidden, he thought of that morning the day after Christmas, how she pressed against him, touched him as she had not before. He quelled the thought.

“And she would insult me further by thinking me some vixen that abandoned her young as soon as she could.”

“You are the manifestation of her failures,” he said. “She cannot produce an heir, perhaps cannot even hold his interest; Comstock’s fault to be sure, but still, she was in the wrong to come here all fume and fret.”

Even as she grasped his hand briefly to show her affection, she said, “There will be repercussions. For us or for her. Comstock will not like this lack of control with information or temper. Annabelle was never to know about Elizabeth’s true origins— _too delicate_ he said, though we’ve witnessed she is quite capable of drawing her own conclusions. And he will see her outburst as a miscarriage of his power. ”

“Don’t _we_ have some pull in this?” This was always a _delicate_ matter, but Rosalind had weight. It was due timethey exerted that power and reign Comstock in. Especially coming in the wake of this Sutherland affair.

Rosalind straightened, pulling away from him. “We do,” she replied, her face impassive once more, “But we will not go about it as what transpired here.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“And I have you, now,” she added, heading into the hall to secure the parlor door.

There was a glimpse of a smile and he grinned. “You do.”

They entered the front room to check if Gwen had remained, but perhaps it was better that she had gone home. He would speak to her later about the incident.

Rosalind locked the front door of the house, something they rarely did, but yes, they had had too many unwanted visitors of late.

“What’s this business with Sunday Brunch?” he asked, remembering.

“She’s due an evaluation,” she answered, glancing around the front room, no doubt observing Gwen’s work area. “But either way, the amount of things she’s seen must be dealt with accordingly.”

Yes, it was a great amount of _things_ she had come to know either by intention or accident.

“She is exceedingly clever.” He was almost worried they’d made the mistake of hiring her.

There was a list of tasks neatly written on a small sheet left on the desk and Rosalind picked it up to study it more closely.

“Yes,” she said quietly.


	19. Audi, vide, tace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Rosalind finds that meetings over lunch often reveal things.

_Hear, see, be silent_

* * *

 

**January 6, 1895, Sunday**

She made it a point they eat at the odd hour, away from the bustle of mealtime peaks, but it was necessary they be seen on occasion, keep the public’s curiosity sated so they might leave her and Robert alone. The cacophony of the chatter and china would also serve to mask their conversation. They did not often entertain people over lunch, but Gwendolyn was joining them this morning.

It was due time she had an evaluation, nearly a month and a half into their employ. Quite certainly, she had been the _longest_ hire, though the record before her was one week and hardly worth note. All those girls, and indeed one young man who fainted at the sight of blood on his first day, had proven ill-fitting for the job, but _Gwendolyn_ , was very competent as well as intelligent. Her work did not go unnoticed or unappreciated and Rosalind would make certain that she was compensated fittingly.

That being said, the matter of discretion and all the subjects she had been made privy to, intentionally and unintentionally, should also be _appropriately_ addressed.

Rosalind had discussed the matter with Robert, that perhaps, there was the possibility of them sharing the true knowledge of their work with someone who had the potential to contribute. Though that was merely a thought, and nowhere near a feasible action. A month had merely proven she was competent. Certainly there were notable traits Gwendolyn possessed that hinted at an outlier, perhaps a protege, but it was early yet, enough time to still observe her or groom her.

Still, Rosalind lingered on the thought.

Comstock had given her funding yes, but that was simply a matter of immediate funds. She had been on the brink of an even larger discovery with tears, with Robert, and it was only when she had proven her worth to his cause beyond suspending the city that he had given her more. Blood from a turnip. Initially, she had not minded the secrecy, but now, his insolence was becoming rather boring. Imagine how much more progress she could make with their work once the rest of the world knew. Instead of the early days when she petitioned for patrons, it would be patrons begging for her favor. And with that, she could choose her own assistance, direct her own lab proper.

From across the table, Robert watched her. It had been some time since they had simply sat and smiled, their minds unison. Comstock’s antics aside, they had made fantastic progress on their infusions and were set to expand their work, Gwendolyn included. Recently, however, this solidarity was becoming difficult to _discern_. There was an increasing look of yearning in Robert’s gaze. Admiration, inspiration, adoration, these were always present, but this _implication_ , this yearning that pulled at her when she stared back, always returned her to that night she witnessed the universe tear away and unveil his face for the first time.

Rosalind concerned herself with her tea to break the connection. Yes, Christmas had made it very clear to her that they were steadily approaching something new in their relationship. Their touches were bold, while hesitant. Their words direct, while nuanced.

She brought her tea to her lips, watching his eyes observe the moment skin touched porcelain. He was aware of her scrutiny but still he met her gaze and he smirked in that charming way of his despite his _cheek_. When she placed her cup down, she was careful to hide the corner of her mouth that had quirked up behind a napkin.

A discussion was in order, as it always was when they reached a new quandary. They had discussed the differences and congruences of childhood, of scars, music and literature, research and patrons, or lack thereof. The list went on. Now it seemed they were to discuss _unification_. And they would converse how they normally would, as Robert, as Rosalind, as male and female, as two sides of the same coin. The discourse had always been clear, predictable, but _this_ , copulation,

was completely extraneous to their existence. For a time they had even thought a simple touch would be impossible, destructive, but they had touched hands, and Robert had crossed over and recovered. What was next in their experiment? All things pointed to success, given time.

But what was successful in this universe, was _unsuccessful_ in another. Had she declined Robert’s affection? Had he never recovered? Had the tear for his crossing destabilized? Had those dimensions collapsed because of some error? Hers?

Robert eyed her carefully across the table now, mildly concerned.

Rosalind reassured him with a quick smile, still considering her thoughts. His pain, his blood; she had never fretted over anything before he had crossed, and that was always the defining condition to anything they partook.

She glanced over his shoulder at the door, keeping an eye for Gwendolyn. “She’s here.”

The host escorted her to their table, and they both stood to accept her.

“Miss Marlowe,” he announced.

She smiled at them both and Robert helped her with her chair.

When they were all seated, the host asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water will be fine, thank-you,” Gwendolyn answered.

“Please, order what ever you like,” Rosalind offered.

She considered a moment. “I’ll have cocoa then.”

“Certainly,” he nodded and left them.

Gwendolyn glanced around, observing the crowd.

“Forgive the crowd, I thought it might serve to make you more comfortable,” Rosalind informed.

“Am I to be made _un_ comfortable?”

Rosalind was pleased at her forthrightness. She would speak her mind, even if her situation were against her, which was the contrary. “This has nothing to do with the incident regarding our unexpected visitor the other day,“ she said, “But I should like to give you opportunity to comment without fear of rebuke.”

Gwendolyn fell into that sharp contemplation she possessed and after a moment asked, “Is her usual temperament like that?”

“She was…agreeable when I first met her,” she revealed, catching Robert’s interest from the corner of her eye. “Interested in my work, in a way that a woman like her might not usually be. But, a woman does not make easy company if she chooses a life such as mine.”

Yes, Annabelle Comstock had been agreeable, perhaps a bit too much, in the first few instances they had met. Comstock had his city, his visions, until the issue of an heir arose, along with her discovery of tear stability and Robert’s crossing, and suddenly the turn of jealousy made her true feelings apparent.

“You needn’t worry about backlash from her either. Her quarrel was with me.”

A server brought her beverage and Gwendolyn knew to wait until he had left.

“Madame Lutece, again, I do apologize if my actions led to further disagreement or were perhaps, improper.”

Rosalind dismissed it. “As I’ve said, I feel you handled the situation as well as could be, and if you have no further qualms, we shall continue with the reason we are here.”

She nodded.

“You have been employed with us for a month now, enough time for us to properly evaluate your work.”

She sat straighter.

“We are very pleased with your ethic and your skills.”

Rosalind glanced at Robert briefly. Gwendolyn had been his pick, his insistence, and she nodded for him to give the news.

“We’re giving you more responsibility in the laboratory,” he said. “You are free to read and borrow any books on the first floor, and your current wage will be doubled.”

As expected, she was immensely pleased with their extension and expansion of her duties. Let it be said that she rewarded hard work and potential accordingly. Which brought her to her next extension, one that she and Robert were cautious of, but equally interested in: establishing a team and expanding their work.

 “Now, you have discussed your career interests casually, however, if you would prefer, we can begin some preparation into broadening your skills in the laboratory.”

In the current climate—Comstock and all that mess, it was dangerous to consider outside parties, proteges, but she was confident they would come to a mutual agreement, or perhaps a better benefactor, or perhaps Comstock might become his own demise. Either way, she would see that her breakthroughs were pushed to their limits, with or without Comstock’s help.

“Is that something that interests you?”

“Madame!” she exclaimed, then thought better of the action and set about using a sip from her cocoa to regain her composure. “It’s not something I considered, but yes, it interests me.”

“Good,” Rosalind said and truly she was pleased to hear it. “Now, it may be sometime before we put that into action, but moving forward we will make for accommodations. Any questions?” She glanced between the two of them. There would be no going back from this point.

“This is effective immediately?” Gwendolyn clarified.

“Yes.”

“Madame, Sir, thank-you very much.”

“And we thank you for your excellent work,” she said, picking up her tea for a drink. “It is a new year. Let us work towards ever increasing achievement.” From over Robert’s shoulder she made eye contact with their server and waved him over to continue with their meal.

The traditional Sunday Roast was normally appreciated by the Catholic faithful breaking their fast, a surprising large number of  the city’s population. But as it were, they were breaking their own fast so to speak. In this last week, they had pushed though _obstacles_ , both seen and unforeseen.

And as she carved into her Yorkshire pudding, she was mindful of the veiled figures in the corners of the room who claimed their piety, yet feasted on caged birds whole.

“Have you sampled Ortolan, Gwendolyn?” she asked after a bite. She took note of her glance in that direction. Despite its _sinful_ associations, the dish was unusually popular amongst the elite.

From the corner of her eye, Gwendolyn glanced uncertainly once more at the tables. “I have not.”

“You think it unusually cruel, keeping a bird locked in a cage?” Fattened, stuffed, until its tiny legs could not support it in its confined space. It was a testament to humanity’s greed.

“A bird in its cage is not _unusual_ , Madame. Perhaps you are protecting it from predators, perhaps you mean to study it,” she offered, “But there is _unusual cruelty_ in how it is fostered, how it is consumed.”

Rosalind observed her. She always did speak so candidly without first concern of her surroundings. Even now, she spoke to her as if they were equals, not apologizing, not timid. A sure sign of her resolve. Yes, Rosalind would make sure to keep a careful interest in her direction.

“Greed is the most undesirable of sins,” Gwendolyn said. “Worse than pride. A continual grasp, a possession. Perhaps they hide their sin out of necessity; in this city they are much closer to God.”

Ah, she had her own rhetoric as well. “Do you go to church?”

Gwendolyn blinked, as if remembering. “Er, sometimes, Madame. You’ll forgive my prose. I hadn’t meant to offend—“

“—There is no division here. To deny that such texts and beliefs exist is only severing yourself from a possibility of outcomes and understandings. And consider that where one might see God, another might see science.”

She nodded.

“Once one has become aware of infinite dimensions,” Robert added, “The differences between two things is as simple as the side of a coin. Wholly different yet the same.”

Rosalind stole a glance at him, finding increasing difficulty concealing her enjoyment regarding his cheek again. It was happening much more often she’d noticed, and he knew it too, daring to hold her gaze as he hid his wry smile behind his teacup.

“Now then,” she said, breaking eye contact, “Let’s enjoy the rest of our meal. Surely there are no sins that we might hide.” But as she looked at his face, the weight of his gaze, the delightful smirk about his lips, she quelled the thought of which of those deadly seven she was guilty of in that moment; pride, vanity, perhaps something else.

The rest of their meal and conversation slowed. Rosalind took note that this was their first full and decent meal in sometime. A week? Probably not since Christmas. She glanced across at Robert taking large bites. There was the fact that his physiology required more sustenance than hers, but out of necessity he must constantly eat. His battle was constant, his fatigue or hunger a sure allowance of spells. He hid his tremors in moments they were caught up with work to press on to show his improvement but she would always be sure he took the time he needed to recover.

Gwendolyn also observed Robert take bites. No doubt she had learned their eating habits. Occasionally she had brought them meals, of which she was grateful for. It meant that Robert could eat and they could continue with their work. A suitable arrangement.

After a moment he became aware of the attention and lessened his intake. He was the last to finish eating and when their server had cleared their plates, Rosalind stood, Robert and Gwendolyn following.

She offered a smile and her hand. “Gwendolyn, we shall see you tomorrow morning then. We look forward to your continued presence with us.”

“Again, I really appreciate it, Madame, Sir.”

He shook her hand and gestured for them to walk ahead of him to the door.

The host and footman were already prepared to see them out with their coats, but as they stepped into the foyer, a fair amount of ruckus from the street could be heard.

“What do you suppose that is?” Robert asked curiously, adjusting his collar and lapel.

As she slipped on her gloves, she said, “I do hope it isn’t anything.” She really didn’t. If it was Comstock acting independently again, she was certainly not in the mood.

Gwendolyn had pushed through the front door and out onto the street, encountering a man rustling down it. “Sir, what’s this about?”

“Lady Comstock dead!” he cried.

“Dead?” she gasped.

Rosalind shared a glance with Robert.

“Only just last night, ma’am. Murdered!” he continued and removed his hat. “’Tis a sad day in the city of God.”

Across the street a crowd bustled around three newsboys who had arranged an efficient system; a hawker, a receiver of coin, and dispenser. Gwendolyn hurried across the street to purchase one and returned to them, scanning the information.

“…In the late hour, while Our Great Lady knelt praying to our Creator for her husband and Miracle Child, a colored maid possessed by the Evil One himself, struck her across the head. Despite the terrible act, Our Lady died peacefully, taken into the arms of God who had blessed her with such a momentous and miraculous life…”

Silently, she reread it again. “But why would a servant kill her?”

Rosalind saw the skepticism in her eyes, the gears connecting.

“Is this because—“

She pulled the girl back into the foyer of the restaurant, startling both her and Robert. “—Gwendolyn,” she hissed, “The subject of discretion has never needed to be fully discussed, though you have been very good at it,” she added, assuring her slightly, “But whatever you may have seen or heard in our home. Whatever conclusions you draw, you must be _very careful_ about keeping them to yourself.”

Gwendolyn nodded, her eyes narrowing but even with its hardness, Rosalind remembered how young she was.

“Have it from me and remember it well. In these next days, Comstock may ask you if you were there when she was. You must deny it. “

“Yes, Madame.”

“I’ve no doubt of your understanding of social interaction, but often you have little intention to observe. A good trait, in our eyes, but in this matter, _do not reveal that you were there_.”


	20. Pari passu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roberts understands that theories must be tested, both in work and life.

_“With an equal step”_

**January 9, 1895, Wednesday**

The air was warmer, the altitude lower, the weather mild, but even that did little to stop him from recalling that terrible week after the blizzards. Cold, hungry, peckish, more than just the wind threatened to knock him off his feet that day as he remembered the extremes he’d pushed his body to. But, nothing ever compared to his dissonance. _That_ threatened to consume him, devour his being, always looming in his mind when his defenses weaken.

Today, however, standing on an open barge in the middle of winter he couldn’t have felt better. Rosalind was but an arm’s length away, all poise and determination, between them two crates of flasks clinking and sloshing with every gust of wind that the barge sailed through. In this moment, these vials contained their collection of weeks of toils and the fruits of labor; their first completed project since the Contraption. Robert placed a steadying hand on them for good measure despite their security. He didn’t think he could bear her disappointment if they were destroyed. Between the two of them, he would be their only _work in progress_.

Across the short distance, she glanced at him, sensing perhaps, his thoughts. This phenomenon between them was never invading, never unsettling. Indeed, they hypothesized it was a result of the dissonance; atoms accelerating between their minds to construct the same thought.

She did not like the reminder that he was imperfect, broken, a continuing conundrum that eluded her as intimately as it gave her all the answers she desired. But he was always careful to keep it prevalent in their minds, because he _could not_ be the perfect mirror she believed him to be, so long as he bled and existed as she existed. It was that fact that clued him in to her tenacity and determination of the project. Originally, she had pursued them half-heartedly for Comstock, but the urgency and viability came to his attention as he realized that if the project succeeded, he might have an aid for his recovery and dissonance. He had never brought up his belief, unsure of her reaction. And now, when he glanced at her, it could have been the harshness of the wind, but her eyes narrowed at him, as if to keep the subject unspoken.

The barge listed slightly, imperceptible to one accustomed to traveling on it, much like sailors and sealegs, but the flasks clinked again as gravity shifted them a hairsbreadth.

Rosalind broke eye contact to glance back down at them and seemed pleased with their condition, smiling at him just as slightly as she returned her gaze.

Today, they would begin trials on humans. A series of grueling tests on rabbits and livestock proved successful and so they had put flyers up around the city to advertise new _opportunities_ for compensation, specifically anyone with recent injuries or chronic and lifelong ailments. They were very sure to steer clear of Finkton, as even advertising ran the risk of drawing Fink’s ire. Finkton was _his_ domain, as Rosalind said.

He was hopeful they would have a good turnout today. They were providing substantial compensation, in amounts that only a year ago he would have scrambled for. It was something altogether to be the one enticing people to participate in experiments than to be the one participating for money. However, the reason for such amounts was that there was substantial chance for loss of life or limb.

The tests had been successful on rabbits and showed promise for human viability, but there was no guarantee unless they tested it. Approval had been garnered by Dr. Pelletier for tests on humans, though they were careful to not include the very grotesque failures their trials had brought forth at this stage.

Particularly, they targeted the lower middle class; those that wished to steer clear of Finkton but couldn’t afford anything else. They needed short term and long term experiments, and while they were certain they would draw the sickly, those in the pink would no doubt flock for free handouts and act as the control.

Their barge pilot, Mr. Thompson once again, brought them to the docks of H. Mulligan District. The irony of its namesake and the large Irish population was not lost on him. Here, the class divide could be noticed in the stench of the narrow streets, the simplicity and overcapacity of homes, the diversity of skin and hair, the lack of variety in cloth and needlework. This was his world once, a balance of rent, living, equipment, and pouring all his funds into his work as he struggled to find a patron and conduct his experiments. Rosalind had only seen his home; not how he bargained, how he fought for money, how he lived.

Mr. Thompson came over to the them, sparing him an explanation of his change in mood to Rosalind, and Robert helped him unload the two crates to the empty shop kiosk that they had rented.

“As always, we appreciate your help very much, Mr. Thompson,” Rosalind said, leading the way.

“You’re always very welcome, ma’am,” he said. “Sure you’ll be fine here?” His hard gray eyes scanned the buildings.

She smiled. “Don’t worry. I have Robert.”

Robert gave him a reassuring nod, but Mr. Thompson expression was one that hinted he would answer to him if something were to happen to Rosalind.

Mr. Thompson had a unique respect for her since she’d first arrived in America, he’d learned. Somehow he had demonstrated his prowess when they were implementing the Lutece particle into barges, despite having only one arm. When City Planning had decided on the necessity of a fleet of barges, Rosalind had been the one to insist that the disabled British seaman had the experience and improvisation they needed to train others. Since then, he had become their personal barge pilot, unblinking to whatever request they had.

“Two o’clock then,” she said.

Mr. Thompson nodded. “I’ll take a walk, ma’am.”

Robert watched him leave, keeping his eyes on his dark peacoat, feeling as if he’d lose him to the crowd if he looked away.

“I can count on you, yes? Or shall we call him back?” she joked while setting up their chalkboard easel.

“You’ve taken quite earnestly to a new role for me.”

“I’m quite aware of how capable I am. How capable _we_ are.”

She wrote on the board, her lettering neat and bold. He in turn dusted off the counters and seats.

“You’ve never seen me fight.” He wondered briefly how she might react to his fights, the blood and brawls. Probably in the same manner as his spells, with perhaps more _scolding_.

“And neither have you seen me,” she countered. “We shall have to compare our skills.”

Robert gave her an odd look, and she rolled her eyes. “Nothing so barbaric as punches—in that, you would most certainly have the upper hand. I mean _swordplay_.”

He arched an eyebrow. _That_ certainly would be interesting. “A duel?”

Perhaps she detected the intrigue in his voice, but she paused her work and had that coy expression she reserved for topics of particular interest. “How _else_ would we compare ourselves?”

They had done every comparison there is, except the obvious. They had not stood shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, measured her curves to his angles. If the width of his shoulders was balanced by the width of her hips. If the spaces and gaps between them filled and fitted perfectly—

“—Something on your mind, brother?”

Robert let his gaze settle on her for a moment. “Are you not always filling my mind with your immensity?”

She was always there; unbidden, persuasive, persistent. Dominant.

She canted her head slightly, looking almost pained. “Always?”

When his mind was muddled, still stitching and reconstructing from the collision of her and him, he thought he was her. Or in the throes of a terrible spell, he believed she was some manifestation of his own mind. Or when he learned to accept her presence, he knew it to be a confluence; a conjugation of minds.

But now, as he existed as two minds in one body, he thought only of how to complete the symmetry in that. Two bodies, one mind, a principle of classical physics; planets and moons revolving, binary stars orbiting, atomic particles balancing.

He believed this universe worked against him. It endeavored to compel him to her, cleave them into one flesh as the particles that constructed her were the same as his, so all that remained, all that he felt he needed for his recovery was to _know._

He wanted to know _her_ ; to know if her fingers pressed into flesh with the same tension, if her blood flushed under her skin in the same ruddy bloom, if every freckle clustered in the same constellations across her shoulders. If a final joining of self and body would complete them or collapse them into singularity.

He thought of Milton’s _Paradise Lost_. _Can it be a sin to know? Can it be death?_

“It is not always so unpleasant,” he said. “Most of it is quite lovely.”

Rosalind blinked, seemingly caught off guard by the comment.

Robert realized in that moment that perhaps she’d never been described as such.

She regained her composure but there remained a ruminative look about her face. “That thought is yours alone, brother.”

“Well, it’s finally come to it, then,” he said. “I’m talking to myself.”

She gave him a smile as measured as his, and he stiffly returned back to setting up.

Not often did she make the distinction of their separate, individual minds, but on the occasion she did, the divergence was rooted in their lack of discussion of an _issue._ This familiarity with oneself, this most obvious divergence in body, was never fully discussed, because with them, theories had to be tested, repeated. Every connection, from the first tear and touch, was measured, calculated, addressed at length, lest the universe collapse at the impossible existence.

There were so many unknowns, but even with that, Rosalind was always the first to press her hand in his, to whisper “cross over,” to state that she thought her other self to be marvelous. In their dichotomy, he was their subtlety as much as she was their candor. She possessed an intuition, an impulse that he did not. Where he was cautious, she was discerning; where he polite, she was forthright. The nature of their gender roles in society had shaped that. He did not mind that she was always the first to act, to question, to consider, but this chemistry, this gravitation, this _two-body problem_ , was no longer a subject he could remain uncertain about.

He paused as he wiped down the counter, catching glimpse of her steadily preparing for their work today.

In this matter, he would be her, because he _was_ her. And she was him. And they had remained separate for too long. Amidst the crates, she felt his eyes, felt his thoughts, perhaps, and held his gaze for a moment until the chatter of their gathering audience outside the kiosk returned them to their tasks.

Robert pushed aside the issue for later and refocused.

When he was finished wiping the counters, which took a bit of time to get up to his standards, he set about preparing the ledger and check vouchers. Volunteers will be compensated with vouchers that bore their signature and letterhead and cash them at the bank. That was it on his end. Primarily he would be accessing and questioning them about their state of health or current ailments and send them back to Rosalind who would administer the infusion in appropriate dosages.

Rosalind’s job was a bit more particular and required delicacy. The shop kiosk came equipped with a private room, usually for storage, but for their purposes, it offered privacy for volunteers as well as any possible _incidents_. It was also at her discretion to prescribe dosages for short or long term effect on healthy, injured, or the infirm.

Bringing a crate in, he went to check on her and see if she needed any help, but he found her stoking the small fireplace inside, a small privacy screen already prepared.

“Ta,” she said, appreciating his delivery. She inspected the vials once more and smiled.

“All set up front.”

She nodded. “Good. Shall we get started then?”

He slipped into his usual posturing next to her. “As always, I take your lead.”

She made as if to comment but thought against it and headed out.

Together, they walked to the front of the kiosk, the handful of onlookers now a sizable crowd of people arriving at the appointed time. His mood lifted. They should, if all went well, get good results this morning.

Even before they stood face to face with the crowd, there were whispers of surprise at their presence.

_‘Madame Lutece!’ ‘Yes, I think that’s him.’ ‘Blimey, I didn’t think it’d actually be **her**.’_

She was known city-wide, from Columbia’s founder to its lowest worker. The Great Madame who lifted the city. He was merely an extension of her, a rumored visitor that had not been seen too often since his arrival, yet their name precluded them in any setting.

“Good Morning,” she started, that expression of dominance about her face again. Robert was always amused how Rosalind never simply _greeted_ someone. “I assume you’re all here because you’ve read our flyers.”

There were nods, some even holding the flyers themselves.

“Very good. This clinic intends to be mutually beneficial. We have stabilized a tonic that hints to improve one’s health. Today seeks to find a proper dosage and indeed find the limitations of ailments it can affect. For those of you that are ill, we commend your courage to step out and join us.”

Robert surveyed the crowd, a mix of healthy and otherwise. Most wore their best clothes, even those who looked normally confined to house. Compensation drew many out for want or need, but it was hope that caused ailing workers and worried mothers to seek any form of help; hope that something would lessen the pain and suffering. And if Madame Lutece could put a city in the sky, maybe certainly she’d be able to cure the sick.

“For those of you in the pink, we thank you for your participation, and for those merely _curious_ , please step aside until you are certain you wish to participate. We’re not here to entertain or waste time, neither are those who have made an effort to leave their homes in pain, here to suffer among those that would gawk.”

A few people looked around to see who would step aside but everyone continued to listen with rapt attention, even if he was certain English was not their first language.

“There is a slight risk involved. If that gives you qualms, you will not be judged should you wish to decline participation at any step of the process.”

This crowd, despite their class, did not interrupt her.

“If you please, gather yourselves into an orderly line and proceed to Robert at the counter. There you will sign a waiver form and answer some general questions about health and family history. Once you’ve completed that step, he will issue a voucher, and direct you to the examination line. I will call your name and administer the tonic to you in private, after which I will stamp your voucher. Depending on your circumstance, we may ask if you’d like to participate in further studies. Is that clear?”

She glanced around, expecting questions, but also expecting the crowd to have understood. It was simple enough, this crowd knew of standing in lines and receiving handouts or information in such a manner.

“Good,” she continued. “Then let’s begin.” She nodded to Robert and he went to the counter, ready to take the first volunteer.

Robert offered the woman a smile and explained the process in short. “A bit of questions first and then the waiver, Ma’am.” Age, gender, family ancestry, profession, ailment, and current treatment, if any, were what they sought.

She was middle aged, American with German ancestry, a baker by profession, in generally good health, and suffering from Willan’s lepra for several years, with a treatment of Fowler’s Solution when she could afford it. Additionally, he asked specific questions like known allergies to dittany, valerian, and importantly, any blood illnesses. They would take no chance after what happened with the rabbits.

The woman signed the waiver, and he handed her a voucher. He passed along her information to Rosalind who was waiting.

She glanced over the information and beckoned her to follow. “Ms. Moore, please come with me.” Rosalind shared a glance with him. This was the first test.

 They had chosen to put up flyers and have volunteers from people capable of making choices. Rosalind was very particular they come of their own accord, their own choice. Fink gave the illusion of it; a kestrel picking mice in a field—Rosalind’s words.

But even with that, he was acutely aware he may very well be choosing people to suffer, perhaps even die. Even more, he was struck with the reality that perhaps Rosalind was doing these tests for him, that she would disregard the lives of others to ensure his survival and improvement.

He returned his attention, most of it, back to the crowd and his next volunteer.

“What’s your ailment, sir?”

“Nothing. Fit as a horse, Mr. Lutece.”

Robert looked the young man over.

“You wanted healthy volunteers, right?” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I couldn’t understand the other half of the poster but if you’ll have me—”

“—Of course,” Robert smiled politely. “Any known allergies?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Excellent,” he reassured. He gathered his other information. “Now, Mr. Smith, if you’d like to continue, you’ll have to sign the waiver.”

As Robert figured, Timothy, a millworker at barely twenty years old, possessed little literacy, so he highlighted the finer parts of the waiver. Taking another look at the line, he prepared himself for more instances of simplifying the language than not. Yes, this area had a larger statistic of literacy than Finkton, but it was not by much.

He smiled again at Timothy and directed him to the waiting area. “Rosalind will call you when she’s ready.”

Robert cast a curious glance at the door, not having heard any sort of commotion. The initial test must have gone well. As if on cue, the door opened and Ms. Moore left. Rosalind made eye contact with him and smiled. So it had gone well.

She took the next volunteer’s information and escorted him into the room. It was a decent system with the two of them and he was determined to improve it. By his estimation, there were about two hundred people, and he put on his best charm and concentration and set to work.

He compiled data as he knew to do, adjusting his method of operation and delivery until it was streamlined. Very quickly he discovered more about his demographic. The distinction between Finkton and Mulligan District could be found in the accents and distinct lack of color.

Despite the hour, there were still many in line who were able-bodied and capable of work, which they had accounted for in the amount of compensation. Most of that group were men. The rest, if they weren’t ill themselves—a group that was equal parts male and female—were largely women with their sickly children. And though he was no physician, the ailments they were encountering would provide ample amounts of research. As much as there were lacerations, broken bones, there were many that had names: palsy, arthritis, fickle thyroid, ulcers, both forms of diabetes; many that were generalized: disorder of the menses, of the bowel, of the lungs, fatigue, ailments of the heart; and others that could not be determined or were in conjunction with many others.

There were a small collection of ailments that occurred only after arriving in the city, including those still adjusting to the altitude, which was a good consideration of data.

Rosalind accessed his notes, took volunteers to the room, and gave them a dose. With each successful test, his worry lessened, but didn’t fully disappear. Until they determined short and long term effects, he couldn’t allow himself to relax.

A younger boy approached the counter, sixteen perhaps? Regardless, Robert greeted him. “What’s your ailment?” he asked, beginning to number the check voucher. When the boy didn’t answer, Robert glanced up, catching him eyeing the paper. Robert paused.

“Uh, me arm hurts,” the boy answered, favoring an arm that had been perched across the counter.

“All the time or just when you move it?”

“Most of the time,” he mumbled.

“Describe the type of pain.”

“It’s like a pain all over—“

“—Dull or sharp? An ache or stab?”

“Er, both.”

Robert put his pen down impatiently and exhaled. “You are aware this could harm you? _Severely_ , if you don’t give me correct information? I can list you as healthy. There’s no difference in compensation.”

The boy huffed indignantly at being called on his lie. “It hurts.”

“Very well,” he sighed. Rosalind would deal with him.

The door to the room opened and she came out, glancing at the clipboard prepared. “Follow me please.”

Robert went back to his work, preparing the next volunteer. They had discussed the issue of Fink perhaps finding out, or indeed, anybody simply curious looking to make some penny off their research. Rosalind was a much better judge of men than he was and most others did not feign ailments such as the ones they were seeing today.

As he walked the volunteer through the waiver, there was a small commotion in the line about five people down. Someone had fallen, and it wasn’t clear if it was a scuffle or an ailment until a man carrying a small boy rushed forward to the counter and a woman quickly attended to him.

“Please, sir,” she asked, an Irish lilt in her plea. “He has fits.”

At the same time, the door to the room opened out and Rosalind’s voice was terse as she commanded the volunteer out. “What did I say about wasting time?”

Were there not an ill child, he would have been amused, but Rosalind quickly detected the situation and asked, “What’s the matter?”

“He’s fitting.”

“Please, Madame,” the woman, presumably the boy’s mother, implored her.

They both looked at the ashen child, his red hair matted to his forehead; tiny in the man’s arms. The fit seemed to have passed, but he still remained limp. Robert was struck with a familiarity of the situation, but before he could place it, Rosalind ushered them to the room.

“Bring him here,” she said.

She held his gaze for a moment, and briefly, the sharp scrutiny she usually possessed was replaced with an another. It was gone just as quickly, and she nodded at him to continue with the process of volunteers.

Robert returned to the counter, trying to place her expression. He rubbed at his left temple.

“Everything alright, sir?”

He meant to answer that yes, it was just a headache, realizing a moment later that the question was not directed at him.

Attempting a smile that resembled more of a grimace, he pushed aside his memory of Rosalind. Her expression, which he now recognized to be the one she had when his dissonance occurred, threatened to cause one. And certainly, _now_ was not the time a spell should occur if.

“Nothing to worry about, sir,” Robert reassured and directed the volunteer to the waiting area. By the time Rosalind emerged from the room, his headache had waned, and there were three people queued.

“How fares the boy?” he asked, not looking up from his writing.

Beside him, Rosalind too did not look away from the clipboards neatly arranged for her. “Recovering.”

He crossed and dotted his letters, pausing mid-notation. “Any effect?”

“Difficult to say at this point in time, but it looks promising.”

“Excellent.”

He continued with his work. They would, of course, discuss all the results after this, but it was heartening to hear that their experiment was fruitful. He glanced at the remainder of the line, roughly twenty-five people. Not a problem.

Despite the slight backup, he and Rosalind resumed their pace, finishing within the hour. At the last volunteer, Rosalind showed no sign of weariness, merely glancing over the clipboard and nodding at the older gentleman who presented with a fever.

“Mr. Henderson? This way if you please.”

She led him into the room, pausing before she entered to give Robert a smile. He smiled in return. The door closed and Robert allowed himself a yawn.

He forgot how exhausting it was working with people in experiments. They did not have to maintain appearances with machines. Flasks and generators weren’t loud and questioning, chalkboards and journals did not make idle chatter or smell of alcohol, but, he admitted the opportunity to get results such as these did not come easily or often.

Flipping through the ledger, he earmarked the entire day’s entries, satisfied with the quantity. He was sure Rosalind would be too. December and all its… _challenges,_ seemed so distant. That feeling was sometimes rooted in his dissonance. Two minds, two lifetimes, often that made for a full head or displaced sense of time dilation.

There wasn’t much cleanup they had to do. On his end, there were papers, the ledger, clipboards. He gathered them and placed them in a now empty crate. As he rearranged them, ensuring their data was protected in a folio, he heard the door to the room open. Rosalind gave her closing remarks to Mr. Henderson, but then—

“—Mr. Henderson, there’s no need for _that_ —”

Robert rushed to the room. He was unsure of what to expect but he did not expect _that_.

“You understand I’m not a practicing physician?” Rosalind said irritably. Mr. Henderson was angled to the door, his trousers around his ankles.

“Please, Madame—“

“— _Sir, explain yourself,“_ Robert said. How dare the man expose himself to her. Under no circumstances should that ever need to happen.

Rosalind held up her hand to stop him, but he still moved to stand near her. It was only when he was closer that he saw the man shaking, his knuckles white from clenching.

“Two months and the doctor’s treatment has done nothing.”

Robert glanced at Rosalind who studied the man and his genitals with her usual clinical detachment. She pursed her lips, a sure sign of her analysis. “Very well. I’ll have to adjust the dosage then.”

She moved to the crates and selected three more vials as Mr. Henderson gingerly bent to pickup up his trousers and make himself decent again.

“Twice a day for three days. Record _any_ results,” she said. “Including sexual. Changes in urges, duration.” She made adjustments on her clipboard. “Any issues with impotence or sterility?”

“Before this, no. And I’ve no children.” 

“Then if there isn’t anything _else_ , we’re done.”

“Thank- you Madame, thank- you.” Mr. Henderson nodded.

Robert watched him leave before observing Rosalind still making notations. She hardly blinked at the interaction, taking in a man’s impropriety with apathy and indifference. It stirred up feelings within him that he did not know the source. Not earlier, he had considered that perhaps she might have some interest in intimacy but just as often, she observed him with the same detachment and scrutiny as a stranger. The issue of sterility also struck him.

Certainly, this was not the first time a man had approached her with solutions regarding his impotence. The image of Comstock—he was unsure if it was imagination or her memory—played in his mind’s eye and it infuriated him.

“Did he approach you like that? Brandish his cock so brazenly?”

She glanced up from the clipboard, an eyebrow raised at his tone. “Nothing like that. He was very discreet, and as you saw, in much pain and discomfort.”

“There are other ways.”

She studied him for a moment before continuing. “I suspect an infection of the urinary tract, but we shall see if our infusion has _other_ side effects with vitality. It would be beneficial to consider it as an aid in men’s health.”

“How do you mean?” he said, his annoyance still not fully under his control.

Rosalind looked at him interestingly. “False modesty does not become you, brother. Have you not approached me the same way?”

He huffed, feeling his face grow warm. “When I was _half mad_ and believed I was a woman.”

The corner of her mouth quirked. “You must know I’m teasing, brother. Surely you haven’t forgotten the numerous times I’ve brought your hand to your cock to help you remember.”

“I haven’t.”

Yes, he certainly hadn’t, but that was to aid him in his recovery after crossing over, to help him recognize himself through comparison, no different than their comparisons of bone structure, definition of jaws, or taste in music.

“Haven’t you?”

He forced himself to meet her eyes again.

“Despite that women are seen as vessels of childbirth, defined by their biology, men apparently need an extra appendage to define their existence.” In contrast to her words, she smiled at him and touched his jaw. “Chin up. Your existence is defined by _much_ more.”

* * *

 “You’d think after so much toil and progress we’d be done, but there is still so much more work that must follow,” Rosalind said, scanning through the ledger. Every other line she stopped to verify with her notations.

“You could say that of every day.”

She paused to smile and hum in agreement briefly. “ _Tempus fugit_.”

As he knelt next to the table, Robert glanced up from his unpacking. Classics again?  He smiled, appreciating the challenge. “…Time flees irretrievably while we wander around, prisoners of our love of detail.”

“ _Full marks_ , brother,” she said.

“Only rarely must you put up with my occasional bouts of drivel.”

“Perhaps,” she said, returning her attention to the notes again. “But I’ve grown accustomed talking to myself, and _that_ is never drivel.”

He considered the openness of her appreciation, how much more candid her comments were as of late. What he had concluded he would do.

Legs crossed, she sat on the edge of the table from which she continued her data comparison. Robert glanced up at her, boot to blooming dress bustle. Soft, contemplative pout at the corners of her mouth to the cool sidelong glance as she peered inquisitively at his sudden attention.

Perhaps she already knew what he was going to do, but he straightened to his full height and walked to the phonograph to set a record. He felt that her gaze followed him across the room and after he dropped the needle, he turned to meet her eyes.

Music was their connector; the quickest, surest way for them to return to the same mind. Connect in the eyes, no matter what the feet do. 

He offered his hand. Setting the journal down, she took it without question, stepping to him and assuming a follower position, but when he laced their fingers, her expression became unreadable.

Still, she canted her head slightly to peer at his face.

“Our thesis, our _cornerstone_ , revolved around a particle,” he stated, perhaps incorrectly. It was not _a_ particle, but _the_ particle; hydrogen.

 She hummed her acknowledgement. “Yes, go on.”

“We know this particle to be that which we draw our understanding of classical mechanics and the basis of _quantum_ mechanics.” He was restating a known principle, but he could only describe the unknown with what he knew. “That in determining the motion of two bodies that interact only with one another, we can understand the mutual bonds that appear within this universe.”

She studied his jaw a moment and then peered over his shoulder. “The two-body problem has always been the foundation of the Lutece particle. Undoubtedly, it’s _how_ we connected through between universes. I would not have you were it not for that.”

Now he fell silent a moment, unsure if she already had figured out what he was trying to address. “It’s, er, been a year since I’ve been here.”

“A good year,” she murmured.

“Yes, my best,” he admitted.

“And?” She looked at him again. “Do you wish to go back?”

He smiled. “No, nothing like that. I have everything I need here.”

“Then what? _Oh dear,_ ” she said sardonically, perhaps to hide that she had been worried. “Have you become… _sentimental_?”

He frowned at the word and their unbelief of it. “Are you going to let me finish?”

“Perhaps. That is dependent on what you are going to discuss.”

He slid his hand that rest on the small of her back lower to the top of her buttocks and pressed her flush to him. “I want to discuss _this_ ,” he insisted, peering down into her face.

“Oh,” she breathed, momentarily winded by the proximity. At this distance, he could see how the blood rushed through her cheeks. “So do I.”

They had halted their steps and he started their waltz again. “I have always been comfortable with you. Never _uncomfortable_. You?”

“The same.”

“So, you’ll understand that lately, and…quite often now, when I touch you, think of you, I’m not _uncomfortable_ , only _unsure_. I suppose by nature, I am still a Gentleman.”

“And I, a _Lady._ ” Her mouth was a wry smile.

He exhaled noisily and looked away. “You are not so very subtle or withholding in your _curiosity,_ ” he said testily.

Her hand moved from his shoulder to rest on his cheek and she smiled coquettishly. “It is our best quality.”

“So,” he began again, tongue rolling over his lips to moisten them, “What shall we do about it?”

“Oh,” she said, returning her hand to his shoulder once more, “I should like to believe we confirm _exactly_ what _curious touches and thoughts_ bring about, don’t you, brother?”

“A gentleman never speaks of such things.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes. “Oh, go on, then,”

“Yes,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging. “I should like to _discover_ our similarities and… _compare_ our differences.” He lowered his voice, angled his mouth to her ear. “In the way that you are your own, and I am mine.”

Her ears flushed but she showed no other sign of his effect. “I don’t think we should force it. Do you?”

“No. We should let it happen, naturally. At its own pace.”

“Like a waltz,” she said, that same coquettish smile on her lips again, and they both laughed softly.

“Yes. Like a waltz.”

 


End file.
